Dreaming of You
by azure-tears
Summary: Sequel to Best Kept Secrets. When Mac and Terrence have an argument over their father, Mac seeks the truth to the questions raised. Meanwhile, Bloo's dreams might have more significance than previously thought.
1. Prelude

Author's Note: I finished one fanfic ("Prince Frog") so I decided it was time to write that sequel to Best Kept Secrets. However, since I pretty much established that was a one-shot, this is a different series. And, uh, please don't kill me for my interpretation of Terrence. This is the first time I've ever actually written him.

Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends is not mine and never will be.

Dreaming of You

Chapter One: Prelude

Blooregard Q. Kazoo stared blankly up at the ceiling as if could answer every burning question in his mind. However, it stared stoically back, its whiteness only irritating him. For the past three hours, instead of watching TV, playing paddleball, or any number of the usual activities he partook in, he'd flopped onto the bed and peered up. He was too confused, resentful, and miserable to do anything else. Mac had_ left_ him.

A howl of misery ripped through his lips and he pressed his face into the pillow. Three hours ago, Frankie had received a letter from his creator stating that he was going after his father and not to worry about him. Though the reasons were not strong enough to convince anyone, Frankie had turned chalk white and left the room rather quickly.

Bloo had slumped against the couch and lost all color. Wordlessly, whimpering occasionally, he disappeared upstairs. Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco started after him, but he locked them out. The first hour had been spent denying Mac would ever do something utterly out of character. Then again, _he _hadn't been privy to the scenes between Terrence and Mac that led to his creator's decision. He knew nothing but loathed his creator immensely.

Then the hatred vanished, replacing by aching loneliness. Currently he shut his eyes and hoped this would all be a dream. He had no idea how true that statement would prove in the days to come.

**…**

Terrence's words reverberated in his mind and Mac clenched his fists. All he remembered was his older brother blaming him for sending their father away. Then there was a deafening scream and his swearing that he'd find out the _real _culprit, followed by him storming out without thinking for a second, a rushed letter, and a thumb sticking out. Yes, eight year old Mac was hitchhiking. He had no idea where he was going or how he was going, but he had a vague notion where his father lived. That was his destination.

A wave of torment swept him and he clutched the signpost. Night brought its cold wind and rustled his clothes. He shivered, sensing Bloo in the back of his mind but paying little attention. He had no idea how to block him, but it didn't matter. In a few seconds, that blip fell silent and he was alone again.

Cars breezed past him, some traveling fast enough to knock him off his feet. Finally, a trucker stopped, his eyes glittering in the darkness. Mac didn't like the looks of him and wouldn't have gotten on, but he was already far from home and had no way to get either here or there without a ride. He had no choice.

Little did he know he wasn't the only one eyeing the driver dubiously…

**…**

Frankie exhaled sharply and gazed once at the wall and then at Mister Herriman. The anthropomorphic rabbit inclined his head as if to indicate she might wish to unload onto him. She shook her head and slumped in her chair. They'd sat like this for the past three hours, neither able to hold the conversation too long. Madame Foster perched on her bed and watched her imaginary friend curiously, her expression indiscernible.

"I wonder if he's strong enough…" she murmured and the two spun around to glance at her. They stared but she offered no further explanation. Instead, she eyed the ceiling appreciatively and both knew she desired them to inquire further. Frankie rolled her eyes and Herriman sighed softly. At least he comprehended her games better than she.

"I do not think an eight year old child should risk his health and well-being to pursue-" Herriman started, but his creator interrupted.

"I don't think it's his _creator _we need to be completely concerned about," Madame Foster said cryptically, giving Herriman a meaningful look. Frankie, who had never bonded to her imaginary friend like her grandmother had to hers, shrugged, completely lost. Whatever hidden messages transpired between the two she was not privy to he apparently comprehended clearly. The imaginary rabbit nodded.

Folding her arms across her chest, she frowned and eyed Bloo, passing the slightly ajar door. He dragged himself by and stared at the tiles. His head was so low, it was close to his blobby arms. Though he routinely irritated her, she couldn't help but pity him. Mac's disappearance, whatever the reason, had clearly devastated him. She only wondered how long that would last before he tried to rein him back in himself.

Meanwhile, behind her, creator and creation were speaking aloud again. One bushy eyebrow high, he questioned her theory. Sighing heavily, Frankie swiveled around to listen. Though she'd felt more like an extraneous object than an important person here, she had always found his arguments with his creator amusing. It proved her point that he grated everyone's nerves.

"I sincerely doubt their bond is as strong as ours," he interjected. "As soon as Mac exits a certain perimeter, any sensations will cease-"

"Codswallop! I know _you _felt everything during my honeymoon- you were complaining it for weeks afterwards." A devilish grin swept her face and she chuckled much to her imaginary friend's tremendous blush. Frankie, disgruntled and about as comfortable as Mister Squirmy over there, studied an insect on the floor. She hoped Herriman didn't catch it- nervously; she murdered it and whistled innocently. No one paid her any mind.

"You wouldn't let me teach you sex ed! What did you expect? I tried to show you on the filmstrips-" Madame Foster began and he clamped his paws over his ears. Unfortunately, owing to their gigantic size, he had a greater chance of tuning out Bloo than his creator.

Frankie blushed to the roots of her hair and eyed Herriman capriciously. The poor imaginary rabbit gagged, nauseous no doubt to the recollection. He glanced guiltily at her and the blush deepened to the point where his fur could be aflame by the heat from in his face. She didn't want to know. She really didn't. Already she'd heard enough to last her a while. She loved her grandmother dearly…but she was a little, er, free spirited.

"Um, Grandma? I'm still here."

"Would _you _like to hear about my honeymoon? Oh, it was so romantic…" she trailed off, grinning from ear to grin. Herriman sunk so low in his chair, the tip of his monocle was visible. Meanwhile his creator was lost in reminiscing. Frankie had to prod her to get her to stop for both their benefits. (Though the Herriman torture amused her mildly).

"Why did you call me here?" she gently reminded her and smirked. Herriman wasn't looking at _either _of them now.

"Oh, yes!" Madame Foster said, bubbling, and hopped up in her chair. "I want you to keep an eye on Bloo while he's sleeping. Just poke your head in and see if he's having any nightmares. I think his dreams will be a _lot _more interesting from here on in."

**…**

Terrence sighed and glared at the clock in their apartment kitchen. While the minutes ticked by, his guilt rose by the hour. He honestly didn't remember half of what he'd screamed at his younger brother, but it'd resulted in Mac running away and a sick satisfaction. That was before panic set in.

His mother was going to _kill _him when she discovered the truth. Then she'd try to pry out where he'd gone…but Terrence had no idea where the kid was. Their father had vanished from the mall yesterday and left no traces. He'd checked. Whatever inkling Mac was using, no one else had it. That unnerved him- it was bad enough Mac was acting out of character, worse he hadn't told anyone.

Then again, as bits and pieces of their argument reverberated, he sighed hard. Maybe telling him he was "the reason Dad left", if he'd "never been born, everyone would be happier", and if he "loved Dad so much, maybe you ought to go live with him and stop wasting Mom's money" was a little harsh. Then again, people rarely said things they meant in the middle of an argument. Yet at the moment…he wasn't sure if they were true or not. He had so much resentment towards his younger brother, it poisoned his actions and words.

But running after their father was kamikaze. If he turned away from both of them, what chance would he stand hitchhiking to his heart? An eight year old had no business on the street, especially not one as naïve and trusting as him. He'd get himself hurt or worse. And he hadn't come to his senses yet…this sounded horrible, even to someone like him. What had he done?

He mulled this over and jerked, wincing when the keys scratched the inside of the lock. Of course, while he sat here and wondered what the hell had happened, his mother drove home. His stomach clenched and unclenched. What was he going to tell her when she asked where Mac was? Could he betray Mac's secret life at Foster's to save his skin?

Yet when she asked where his younger brother was, a lie slipped from his lips like quicksilver. Too fatigued to argue, she nodded and then nodded off to sleep. When she awoke in the morning, the facts would settle in. Right now, he escaped and tried to push Mac out of his mind. Unfortunately, that concept proved harder in execution than theory.

**…**

Swallowing hard, Mac's father cast one last glance at Mac's hometown and drove away for what he thought was the last time. He had no idea the storm brewing and would not for some time. Perhaps he was lucky.

**…**


	2. Powerless

Disclaimer: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! That's you, Rakal, lucyrocks73, Trixie21, and Grand High Idol.

Oh, and Foster's doesn't belong to me.

Chapter Two: Powerless

Bloo curled up under the blankets and stared up expressionlessly at the ceiling. Wilt poked his head out underneath to scrutinize the blue imaginary friend, but he said nothing. In fact, he hadn't said anything all night. He responded in shakes, nods, or growls. It unnerved everyone, yet they kept mum about it. Perhaps it'd pass by the morning.

"(Good night, Bloo, Ed, and Wilt)," Coco murmured and two of the three answered. Bloo groaned, curled up tighter, and shoved his face into the pillow. Wilt swallowed hard and shut his good eye. This was not going to be a fun night.

* * *

Tears brimmed in his eyes and he bit back a moan. _Wherever you are, Mac, buddy…please show me. _

As a certain ghost might say on Danny Phantom, "So you wish it, so it shall be…"

* * *

_Bloo blinked, only he wasn't there to blink. In fact, when he glanced down, he didn't see himself at all. Peculiar- normally when creatures have dreams, they're _in _said dreams. But he didn't recognize this place at all. It wasn't fake at all…something was very off. This didn't feel like a dream at all._

_Miles of highway expanse stretched as far as the eye could see and he slowly drifted down, finally landing beside a very familiar brown haired eight year old boy. He wanted to wave his arms and scream at him, but he had no voice or figure. Instead, he watched powerlessly as a truck driver pulled up beside his creator. Cold, bloodshot eyes lustily scrutinized him and Bloo yearned to scream, shriek, or otherwise get his attention. Nothing worked._

_"Where are you goin'?" he asked in a would be casual voice. Raven hair decorated his lips in a mustache and his hair needed a good trim elsewhere. Bloo only had to glance at him to know Mac shouldn't be ten miles near him, much less sharing a compartment. _

_"I…I don't know," Mac replied honestly and Bloo punched him in the arm- only he had no form and the air never moved. He tried screaming in his ear, but he never flinched. Bloo yearned to scream in frustration. He was here, but he wasn't here at all. Goddamn it!_

_"Why don't you come along for the ride, then?" he smiled innocuously and pulled over to permit Mac to enter. That he did, sitting swiftly and apparently ignoring the way his eyes lingered on his chest and his lap. Bloo prostrated himself in front of his creator protectively but he was less than a ghost. He was lingering here, as able as the glovebox to defend him. _

_One hand remained on the wheel as he pulled off the side and back onto the road. The truck started in the same direction, towards the next city. The machine in and of itself posed no risk. Bloo trusted it instinctively. The man driving it, however, was another story._

_The right hand, no longer near the wheel, slid onto Mac's lap. Mac swallowed hard, eyeing it warily, but not entirely certain what was going on. Bloo didn't know either. In fact, he knew far less at this point. All he understood was a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and warning bells in his head telling him that Mac should get the hell out of there or he'd get seriously hurt. He tried to communicate this, but, like before, he was completely unable to. He wanted to cry- and, outside, in the real world, he was._

_"What are you doing?" Mac whispered and he extracted the hand. Bloo sighed, relieved, but he glared at the driver. If he managed to escape this unscathed, it'd be a miracle. And, somehow, he wasn't holding out for a miracle._

_What was in his lap, anyway? He was diabetic, so it wouldn't be candy he was looking for. While he puzzled that one out, the driver was making an excuse no one bought. His excuse derailed his train of thought and brought him back to the present. Mac shouldn't be here._

_"Uh, right," he replied and glanced out the window. In the night, streetlamps illuminated an otherwise bleak scene. Bloo's eyes, however, flicked towards the outdoors and then again to the man. He scanned every inch of him, from his mustache to his baggy, stained t-shirt and blue jeans. The man was too springy and lean for his tastes. He smelled a rat._

_They traveled in relative silence for the next hour, but his eyes kept traveling his body and he licked his lips. Mac winced, turning away. He was uncomfortable, but he thought keeping his mouth shut would help. Unfortunately, that practice worked with Terrence and not in the real world. He was too shy for his own good…that was why he needed Bloo. Without his imaginary friend, he couldn't speak up._

_"If you want, you could stay here and travel with me," he said, shattering the silence. Mac glanced at him and shivered, but not because he was suddenly experiencing all the worry Bloo was. He suddenly sensed Bloo and Bloo smiled weakly, only he had no mouth to lift. Yet the instant he noticed, things went from bad to worse._

_Taking advantage of his momentary lapse (since he was too busy trying to figure out what was going on); he slid his hand back onto his lap and headed towards his groin. Bloo screamed soundlessly, the actual sound occurring in the real world, and trembled badly. He had no idea what was going on, but he could tell he was going to hurt him. He tried to fling himself at the stranger, tried to snap, bite, or screech, but nothing happened. He could only watch in dull horror as his hand groped around._

_Fortunately, Mac wasn't one to sit and take it. He squirmed, reaching for the door lock, and opened it, rolling out of the car and onto the freeway. He tumbled head over heels into a bush on the side of the road and the combination of shock and dismay knocked him out…and Bloo woke up._

* * *

Voices, ones he ought to recognize but couldn't currently, murmured around him. All he remembered as the man's hand on Mac and a terrible, horrible sensation of being a helpless bystander. He quaked again, crying his creator's name over and over as though the shock would wear off and he'd suddenly appear. No such thing occurred.

"It's a good thing you took my advice, Frankie," an elderly woman said and he shifted in her direction. Like the others, he ought to be able to identify her, but it eluded him. Besides, there were more pressing matters…like whatever had happened just now. Tears streamed down his face, but he barely felt them.

A sharp rap on someone's head and the recipient groaned, rubbing it gingerly. He hopped towards Bloo's bedside and, once again, he felt he ought to know who that was. However, this time, it came to him. Everything faded in clearly and he opened his eyes to find Frankie, Mr. Herriman, Madame Foster, Coco, Wilt, and Eduardo in his room.

"What's going on?" he asked groggily, rubbing his wet eyes. He blinked, surprised to discover tears. The dream flashed before his mind painfully and he groaned, doubled over.

"Where's Mac?"

No one responded, though Madame Foster's eyes shot towards Mr. Herriman and Frankie glanced at the floor. Wilt and Eduardo glanced at each other and Coco shook her head mournfully. Silence descended upon the small room and Bloo screamed. It was a horrific wail, brought on by the scene he'd inexplicably witnessed and his reactions. He collapsed into the pillow and continued, sound muffled by the cotton. No one spoke.

"I just _saw _him!" he cried, frustrated tears brimming to the surface again. He spun around like they were hiding him somewhere and holding back simply to irritate him. In fact, his eyes scrutinized each accusingly, but none of them looked to be in league with the driver. He was bewildered, frustrated, utterly clueless, and thoroughly enraged with everyone in the room for not speaking to him.

"We…we know, Bloo," Frankie said finally. "You were screaming his name."

"You were having a nightmare-" Mr. Herriman began, but another sharp rap from his creator silenced him. She glared and he withdrew, folding his arms across his chest and sniffing disapprovingly. A weak smile hugged her lips briefly and then disappeared again.

"You were _not _having a nightmare, nor were you having a dream. Do you understand?" she interjected and Wilt, Coco, and Ed shook their heads. However, since she was not speaking to them, she ignored them. Instead, she focused her beady eyes on Bloo.

He shook his head, not quite comprehending. "It didn't _feel _like any dream I've had before. It was so _real_..."

"That's because it wasn't a dream-it was real. Anything and everything you saw happening to Mac was happening while you were asleep. You weren't dreaming it- you were seeing it.

"From what my Funny Bunny tells me, you can't control your reactions in this. You can scream, rant, and rave, but only in real life. You have no body otherwise. And from what my granddaughter told me, you were doing a lot of those three. What did you see?"

Bloo stared back, nonplussed. Horror sank in, but it wasn't as strong as before. Somehow, he'd already suspected the dream was more than it appeared. Somehow, unconsciously, he'd realized it was happening. Unfortunately, that made him feel worse, not better. At least under the guise of a dream, one could write it off and hope it never transpired. Now he didn't have that safety net.

Panic stricken, he sprang forward, fully intending to somehow locate his creator and rescue him, but Eduardo pinned him down. It took both paws and the addition of Frankie to fully immobilize him. Once this was accomplished, Ed experimentally removed a paw and Bloo began to struggle madly again. Frankie darted out, retrieved a straitjacket, whispered an apology, and wrapped it around him until he stopped, glaring at everyone and muttering under his breath.

"You don't even know where he is!" Frankie protested, wincing in the face of his fierce gaze.

"But I can figure it out!" Bloo responded, stubborn as always. However, his conviction faded somewhat. He really had no idea where Mac was. How was going to locate him if not through pure, dumb luck? Normally, he'd be gung ho about it, but in this straitjacket and in the light of his experience, he wasn't so enthusiastic.

"He could be miles from here…" Wilt reasoned.

"And that driver could come back and hurt him!" Bloo moaned, tears brimming again. Herriman, Frankie, and Madame Foster exchanged an odd look and then glanced at him.

"_What _driver?" Frankie said, frowning lightly.

Swallowing hard, glaring alternately, he explained what he'd seen. When he finished, those who understood were the color of sour milk. Frankie shook her head wordlessly and they exited, leaving the four imaginary friends to themselves. This was worse than they'd thought.

* * *


	3. Shock

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and, uh, enjoy? Foster's is not mine. :P Oh, and keep reviewing!  


Chapter Three: Shock

Mac gingerly rubbed the top of his head and swallowed hard, the past few hours rushing back to him. Cars sped past him and whenever a truck joined them, the bottom of his stomach collapsed. He had no idea what had happened, but he hadn't liked it in the slightest. Not to mention he could have sworn Bloo was there too, watching silently. That alone made him feel worse than the actual incident- he'd run off without so much as an explanation and now his imaginary friend was subject to his experiences without protection? He didn't know what to think.

One thing was for certain; he wasn't going to hitchhike again any time soon. Frowning, he traveled down the endless road, the moon his only companion. It was hours later when he stumbled, bleary eyed, and collapsed in another ditch.

* * *

Bloo slept badly. He'd scarcely dropped his head to the pillow when Herriman bustled in, demanding everyone eat breakfast. He'd never been more sorely tempted to tell that rabbit where to go and how he might wish to get there. Of course, such dictums were usually beyond what he'd say, even when he _was _cross, but he didn't care. Normal dreams paled in comparison to his connection with his creator and being shunted into them frustrated him. As upsetting as the first dream had been, it was his only tie. 

Angrily shoving aside his bed sheets, he dropped out of bed and dragged himself down the corridors and to the dining hall. Unlike usual, his stomach never rumbled and he'd thought he'd sooner vomit than scarf down food. The very notion rocked his stomach nauseously and he grabbed a banister to steady himself. Maybe he should just skip breakfast. His stomach didn't want any part of it.

"Master Blooregard," Mr. Herriman snapped, jarring him out of wishful thoughts of evading everyone this morning. He tapped an impatient paw and directed the blob towards the table. Bloo glared at him and everyone else he came into contact with. He muttered a few choice words and they backed away, taken aback.

"I do suppose you know to make yourself a bowl of cereal? When you are finished, Madame Foster would like to speak with you," he said, bowing respectively to his creator and motioning politely at passing imaginary friends. Bloo shoved his chair back, knocking into the rabbit, and glowered. His appendages balled and a wave of loathing swept him. It wasn't truly loathing for the rabbit, though that might have been part of it, but for the situation he'd been thrust into and the relative helplessness he endured.

"I'm not hungry," Bloo snapped petulantly. "Let's get this over with."

Mr. Herriman's expression never wavered in the slightest. Instead, he motioned towards the bowls on an adjourning table and indicated a cereal box in the kitchen. Apparently, he wouldn't take no for an answer. Eyes drifted towards them and then lazily back. There might be an argument brewing, there might not. There certainly was an element of insolence in Bloo that hadn't been there yesterday.

"You _will _eat."

"And what if I don't?" Bloo retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "What are you going to do about it, rabbit? Throw me out? Put me up for adoption?"

Mr. Herriman's eyes narrowed and he leaned over to whisper where Bloo probably had ears. Their faces were an inch apart and immense dislike radiated off both. Frankie, entering the room with a tray full of eggs for imaginary friends who she didn't trust to cook, halted. She glanced at her grandmother and then at the situation at hand. Bloo was testy already and Herriman clearly hated the imaginary blob. This couldn't end well unless someone stopped it before it escalated any further.

"Don't _tempt _me. You are already on thin ice in this house and it is only through our charity that you remain here. You forget that Mac is no longer here to visit you- I would not be surprised if you were to be placed for adoption relatively soon," he hissed, unaware of Madame Foster speeding to the scene and her granddaughter on her tail. The dining hall fell silent, all listening in on this scandal.

"Is that a _threat_, Funny Bunny?" Bloo retorted. Unlike Madame Foster, this use of his nickname was clearly intended as an insult. Herriman flinched momentarily, and then drew himself up to his full height. Bloo had to glare up.

"No, it is a _promise_," he hissed and would have said more, but a sharp rap on his spine silenced him. Madame Foster's eyes were steely and cold and Frankie, standing behind her, mirrored her expression. The younger Foster folded her arms across her chest and glared at Herriman so heatedly, he instinctively recoiled.

"_Enough_!" Madame Foster snapped, glaring at the two. "Mr. Herriman, I expected better of you. You should know better than to rise to someone's bait."

He hung his head, properly chastised, though he couldn't help but bite back an impatient snort. It wasn't exactly a secret how much he loathed Bloo; he _did _have a punching bag with his face on it. Mac's return every day sealed the deal that Bloo would never be adopted, but now that Mac was out of the picture…

Madame Foster's glare intensified- she knew where his thoughts lay. Nodding to Frankie, the two dragged them out into the hall and into an unused office. Herriman and Bloo hadn't stopped glaring at each other and Madame Foster had to whack her friend a few more times before he stopped entirely, rubbing his wounded sides. It ought to be illegal to use that cane as a weapon.

Flopping into a cushy arm chair, she at first admired it and then swirled around to regard them. Herriman reluctantly selected a plastic one in front and Bloo stood defiantly in the back. Frankie tried to get him to sit or at least move forward, but he merely bared his teeth and growled like a feral animal. She shivered, unsettled.

"Bloo is _not _going to be up for adoption, Mr. Herriman, and you have no right to threaten that. In case you might have forgotten, _I _am the head of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and _I _dictate who is to be put up for adoption. I would no sooner put him up for adoption than I would you.

"That being said, you must also understand that, personal feelings aside, you cannot treat Bloo as you have in the past-"

At this, Herriman balked. What, relax his rules for this little monster? What was so special about him? He'd had one stupid dream and all of a sudden, he was above the law? That was preposterous. It was nonsense like this that gave him such a large head in the first place. No other imaginary friend pranced around like they owned the place and challenged his authority and he stated this succinctly. Surely his creator saw sense.

Interrupting him, her eyes glinting peculiarly, she focused her attention on the smallest creature in the room. Bloo glared back, hostility apparently abundant for everyone and anyone. However, she never faltered. She'd dealt with surly imaginary friends in the past who had less reason to be so than him. Therefore, she wouldn't begrudge him his temper. It was the only thing keeping him from screaming in frustration.

"Bloo, dearie, how well did you sleep last night after your little experience with Mac?" she inquired gently, ignoring his hostility.

"I didn't get any sleep at all. I kept having stupid dreams about stupid things. This whole thing is stupid- why can't I see Mac when I want to?" he snapped, glaring at Madame Foster like it was her fault he couldn't be with his creator and as though she'd driven him away. She only smiled mysteriously, to which Bloo uttered a growl and pounded a nearby bookcase. She understood his frustration, she did, but he had to understand a few things himself.

"Sweetie, you can't see Mac when you want to. When he's unconscious, you can't tap into anything because there's nothing there. You can only see him if you go to sleep when he's _awake_."

Bloo, unable to contain himself, burst out, "What if I never see Mac again, then? What if I go to sleep when he does and I don't wake up in time? Or something happens to him and I can't help him because I'm awake? Or-"

Sighing heavily, nodding towards Mr. Herriman, she said gravely, "I might be completely incorrect in this, but there's nothing you can do while you're _in _the dream either. It doesn't matter if you dream of him in a dangerous situation because unless you can pinpoint the location and arrive there before he seriously gets hurt, you'll be too late to do anything. I know it sounds frustrating, but there's nothing you can do at the moment."

Frankie frowned, following up on her grandmother's words. "You're going to have to deal with it-"

"Deal with _what_?" Bloo cried, stricken. "Not being able to see Mac again? Not being able to help him when he needs me? Seeing him being touched by some trucker and feeling him and standing there, doing nothing? How can you sit there and tell me this isn't-"

"Maddening? We know," Madame Foster said, a small smile flitting across her features. "Lesser imaginary friends than you have gone completely insane, seeing what they couldn't stop. One saw their creator's death and lost it."

The color drained from Bloo's face until he resembled a towel. He mumbled and clung to the doorway for dear life. Madame Foster chuckled at the memory, pitying the poor creature, then stopped abruptly at his reaction. Mr. Herriman stared at the two and swallowed hard, finally grasping the depth of the situation. To his credit, Bloo took this very seriously…since the idea of seeing Mac die before his eyes petrified him.

"Oh, don't worry, dearie. I'm sure you'll be able to figure out where he is in time- and even if you don't, he's resourceful enough to keep himself out of that type of situation," she assured him, but she might as well have been assuring a brick wall for all the good it did. In a daze, Bloo wandered outside and ignored Wilt, Coco, and Ed's calls. He was too horror struck to contemplate anything other than the absolutely wretched concept of his creator dying while he watched. It was almost as bad as killing him…

Dodging imaginary friends up the stairs and through the corridors, Bloo flung himself at his bed and willed himself to sleep. After an hour of staring at the ceiling again, he finally dozed off, but no dreams of Mac came.

* * *


	4. Innocuous

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to Craig McCracken and Cartoon Network. Er, yay for them?

And thank you to everyone who reviewed, all (ahem!) three of you. If you're reading and not reviewing, don't be so lazy. I really like to know what you have to say.

Thank you, Rakal, lucyrocks73, and ahhelga (who I coerced into reading this).

Chapter Four: Innocuous

Bloo was close to sobbing. In fact, tears balled in his eyes but he refused to succumb to them. Instead, his whole body trembled and he clenched his eyes shut in the futile hope it might somehow regain composure. Every time he did, however, the image of Mac dying on the roadway; his body was lying in pieces as cars rushed by. Blood gushed everywhere and one of his legs was splayed in the wrong direction. His hair was matted with blood and his clothes were soaked.

Jolting up in the bed, he stifled a scream and pressed the pillow to his mouth. Today, at regular intervals, he'd tried to 'see' Mac again, but to no avail. Madame Foster's dire words put horrid, terrible images in his head. Every time he stopped engaging his body or mind, he envisioned another gruesome death. Shuddering deeply, he shut his eyes again and clenched them tightly. This was the first time in his life he cried himself to sleep.

* * *

_Mac shivered and blinked, sensing Bloo again. Stars sparkled overhead and he followed them along the road again. Already he loathed where he was and how far he had gone. He wanted to go home, but the argument sprang up again and he knew he'd rather die than give up. _

_Bloo hovered overheard, once again unable to do anything. He scrutinized his creator and marked any cuts, bruises, or lacerations. Other than the bush's thorns, he was fine. Nonetheless, he continued to examine him in case he missed anything. For all he knew, he might spontaneously combust. He shuddered deeply at the thought._

_"Bloo," Mac muttered and the imaginary friend stood at attention or whatever passed for it in the dream._

_"Leave me **alone**."_

_The words hit him like a sack of bricks. He stared blankly, unable to think of anything. Like an axe tearing into his heart, he felt it tear asunder. Could he even begin to comprehend the damage he'd done by uttering those three words? Was he aware that Bloo was just looking out for him? Did he care?_

_"I don't need you here."_

_Then, like a pair of pliers, he attempted to extract him from his mind. However, not only did Bloo refuse to leave, Mac couldn't remove him. The harder he tried, the harder Bloo stuck. They were bonded together, for better or for worse. _

_A number of counterarguments and vicious retorts sprung to Bloo's mind, but, as usual, he was mute. Instead he settled for glowering and folding his arms across his chest…if he had any to speak of. When Mac came home, he was going to receive a lesson in how not to treat your best friend. Number one; don't run off without telling him. Number two; don't tell him you don't need him when you clearly do. As soon as he awoke, he'd write it all out and read it, no matter how much Mac protested._

_Muttering under his breath, Mac trudged along the road until the glare of headlights halted him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and the screech of brakes alerted him to the fact the driver had stopped before him. Whether it was to stop from hitting him or because they were truly worried about the young boy, Bloo couldn't tell. Yet from his recent experience, every cell in his body warned his best friend against talking to them. Strangers weren't as trustworthy as they appeared and he'd be damned if he let Mac get hurt again on his watch. (Not that there was anything he could really do about it, but he liked to think there was)._

_A young woman hushed whoever lay in the back seat and hastily pushed the door open and waltzed over. She was young, late twenties if Bloo could judge age at all, and harried. A large band of hair trickled out of her crammed ponytail and she bore the look of driving hours on end. Her hands were, in fact, trembling. Still, all in all, Bloo doubted she was going to hurt Mac. However, he might be wrong. He never knew with humans, did he? They weren't like imaginary friends…and even imaginary friends could go bad._

_"Oh, you poor dear! What are you doing all alone out here? You're gong to get hurt!" she cried, sweeping her wavy cinnamon hair out of her face. In the dim light cast by headlights and the mostly clouded moon, two heart shaped golden earrings glinted. _

_Mac shivered and hugged himself. Averting his gaze, he spoke to the ground. Bloo prodded him in the back of the head but nothing happened. Muttering uncouthly, his words literally fell on deaf ears. No matter how he reacted, Mac would never notice. He screamed soundlessly. _

_At least there wasn't as much reason for alarm now as there was before. This woman appeared perfectly fine as she led him to her car. In the back seat were two children, slumbering on each other's shoulders. They appeared to be about six and eight respectively and had beautiful, wavy chestnut hair like their mother. In the hand of the six year old girl was a stuffed rabbit that reminded them eerily of Mr. Herriman. Chances were it was the last of the Funny Bunny merchandise that, after working things out with the manufacturers, actually gained money for the house. _

_Other than a few questions Mac answered vaguely, the rest of the trip proceeded in silence. When they arrived at the police station (and she demanded he call his parents), he managed to slip out of her sight and take to the streets again. Bloo's heart sank to his stomach and, slumbering, he held his lower body. The road to hell was paved with good intentions._

* * *

If Bloo was consciously trying to sleep more, then Terrence was doing the exact opposite. Falling asleep detailed torturous dreams wrought by conscience attacks. Remaining awake meant rolling over onto his side and staring at the wall, all the while shoving his guilty thoughts to the side. Neither worked well, but at least when he was awake he could play a video game and forget thinking at all.

The past day had been spent arguing that Mac was better off on the streets. He provided numerous incorrect examples of why and how much he hated him anyway. He decided if Mac couldn't prevent his own birth, then this was the next best thing. Smirking, he told himself he only wished he could see the look on his face when his father told him the truth as Terrence knew it. Then if he dared show his face around here again, he'd be beaten down badly. The thought amused him tremendously.

Or, rather, it had. Now that he'd that stupid dream, he couldn't stop thinking about the bratty kid. Glaring at his Playstation 2 like it had somehow deceived him today instead of himself; he kicked roughly out and folded his arms across his chest. This wasn't his fault. It was Mac's. Yes, that made sense.

When his mother asked, half hysterical, about him, he'd told her another lie. However, instead of the sick satisfaction he received whenever he bore bad news to or about him, his stomach flip flopped. Somehow, lying about his younger brother felt wrong, especially when he could be in potentially life or death situations. No, bad. Mac was fine…and even if he wasn't, why should he care? He didn't give two shits about the kid.

Maybe his conscience was screwed up. Yes, that made sense. Blame everyone and everything but himself. Whatever got him through the night would do.

Clenching his eyes shut and his fists beneath his blue woolen blanket, he sneered. Worrying, feh. Worrying was for wussies.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that if he had to worry about anyone, it was him when his mother discovered what he'd said to the kid. But she wouldn't…and Mac would be fine…perfectly fine…

* * *

Mac's father cast one glance at the town's heroine's wreckage and heaved a sigh. Tomorrow, at an ungodly hour, he'd be back to repair it again. They never thought before they threw a monkey into a building, did they? Their damage was hell on contractors and insurance salesman. He wished he were the latter…then he wouldn't have to do the real tough work.

Like every day, he wondered what his sons were doing at the moment. Seeing Mac at the mall brought back strange desires, guilt, and remorse. For the first time in his life, he truly comprehended the extent of his crime. Its massive weight made him stagger. He'd ruined lives by his actions, thanks to his own cowardice. However, what could be expected? His father had done the same thing.

Burying his head in his hands, he hoped he never had to face his younger son again. With any luck, he was asleep in his bed; sweet dreams of candy and little boy thoughts running through his mind. At any rate, there was absolutely no chance of them meeting up again the way he saw it. Their lives were completely separate.

The Powerpuff Girls flew overhead and he cursed under his breath. Great, another building to repair in the morning. Not everyone appreciated those little brats. Especially not people who already bore strong guilt about their own abandoned children. He shook his head, putting the thoughts of his mind. He wasn't going to lose it, not now, not while there was so much work to be done after he awoke.

* * *

Mac's mother sat up in her bed and glanced once at her son's picture. Mac smiled brightly back, but wrapped around him and grinning like the Cheshire cat was his imaginary friend. She honestly didn't know why she still had that picture. Why would she want to be reminded of his imaginary friend and her ex husband? She'd forced Mac to abandon his imaginary friend like he'd abandoned them. Not that it mattered in the long run…neither was likely to reappear.

Rolling over onto her side, she stared up at the ceiling. Like Bloo, it gave her no answers.

* * *


	5. Faith

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Chapter Five: Faith

_Mac's head thundered and when he awoke, the world blurred before him. Rising awkwardly, he groaned and swallowed hard. In accompaniment, his stomach grumbled painfully. Overhead, stars dotted the sky and the moon shone. Yet the eight year old could muster no enthusiasm for the starlit night and its beauty. His hunger was too great._

_The last day and a half he'd spent either on the road or sleeping. It wasn't surprising that he'd forgotten to eat, though now his body reminded him quite painfully. The only problem was his money was in his bag…about fifty miles away, if not more. He was broke, starving, in need of a decent shower if his clothes were any indication, and still stuck with Bloo in the back of his head. If he weren't so focused on locating his father and having Terrence's points explained, the sheer hopelessness of the situation might completely tear him down._

_Bloo floated overhead as usual and glanced concernedly at his best friend. He had no idea what ailed him, but he was determined to find out. Unfortunately, swooping in front, glaring, and snapping did no good, simply because he had no corporal form here and his voice belonged in the real world, not the dreamlands. Mac's mind was open enough to let him visit, but not receptive to his suggestions. Like it or lump it, Bloo was wasting time trying to shove himself in._

_To the eight year old boy's left after a good walk was a pizzeria. Delicious doughy smells wafted towards his nose and he practically drooled. Parmesan cheese, marinara sauce, and grated cheddar mingled with mushrooms and extra mozzarella cheese. In a patron's hands was a single slice, its heavenly aroma tantalizing imaginary and human tastebuds alike. Mac stared, tongue hanging out like a dog. He'd never been more famished in his life nor so close to a food article without being able to masticate it._

_Swallowing hard, he wondered which was more important- his self respect or his grumbling stomach. However, before he had time to debate the subject, the man finished, tossed the remains away (never mind that Mac was hungry enough to devour the crust particles), opened his car door, and drove off. Sorrowful brown eyes followed his progress down the street, towards the stoplight, and then into nothingness. His stomach moaned piteously and he groaned. Food…food…_

_Like a dog, Mac pivoted in the direction of a teen's call. Bloo cringed; maybe he wasn't well versed in male teen voices, but this tone was dangerously close to Terrence. It mocked derisively rather than beckoned and threatened rather than promised. However, not only was Mac clueless, he was desperate. Anyone could tell you that was a volatile combination. Bloo screamed his name, but, like usual, he never heard him. _

_He trotted towards the dank, cluttered alleyway. A dumpster sat on his left side and darkened red bricks to his right. Other than a half hidden door on the right and the way he entered, he had no other exits. Judging by the rust on the handle, he doubted it would open. He was walking straight into a trap and he **still **hadn't noticed?_

Maybe the hunger pangs are stabbing his brain, _Bloo thought angrily. Nothing else could contend for his spectacular lack of good judgment. He knew Mac was smart…just not street smart. That was why he had Bloo- or, in this case, didn't have him._

_"Hello?" he called into the darkness. It reverberated and he sounded like a lost kitten, in other words, a sitting duck. Bloo screamed again, the eternal voice in the back of his head, but he clearly wasn't getting that channel. With each passing second, his frustration and anxiety doubled. No matter what he did, including clapping his arms and whacking the air above him, nothing worked. _

_A gangly teenager materialized; a dark, malevolent look in his steely grey eyes. Dyed grey bangs covered his forehead and concealed much of his intentions in his eyes. A large something in his front left pocket jangled ominously and his jaw set determinedly, a smirk crossing his lips. Mac trembled visibly, but whether it was from trepidation or hunger, he couldn't tell. _

_"I can get you some food," the youth murmured, twirling a golden chain on his index finger. In his other hand, he toyed with a lighter. Bloo had the sudden, horrifying image of his creator alight and cried out, shoving against the mental block. It wedged itself tightly, locking him out effectively. It was enough to make him scream again, however pointless that was._

_"That's-that's okay," he lied. "I'm not terribly hungry."_

_His stomach, nonetheless, told a different story. It grumbled loudly, not in the mood to be ignored by its lying mouth. The youth snickered, stepping forward to drape an arm around his shoulders. Swallowing hard, he tried to move away, but the grip became painful. He crammed him to his side and, powerless, the brown haired boy glanced up into his cruel gaze._

_"No, really, I **insist**. But, first, you have to do something for me," he sneered, lowering his face and halting only when they were close enough to kiss or smell his fear (Bloo would have spat in his face). In either case, he disliked this immensely._

_"What?" he squeaked, quaking. Again, the youth snickered, relishing it. Bloo's arms balled into fists in his sleep. God, he wanted to hit him. How **dare **he get that close and then laugh at his creator! That was why he needed him…how could he abandon him like that? His heart panged and he ached for him._

_"You have to steal it for me," he grinned evilly. "What, you thought I'd get it myself? Get real, kid. Get it for me…or hunger pangs will be the least of your problems."_

_Both creation and creator swallowed hard, Mac whimpering inaudibly. He was in over his head again._

…

Meanwhile, in the _real _world, Wilt stood worriedly over Bloo. The alarm clock beside his bed read three forty five a.m., yet two of the four imaginary friends were far from sleep. Eduardo glanced down concernedly at his bunk bedmate and then glanced at Wilt again. They were at a loss.

Bloo's fists pounded on the mattress and he hissed, "Leave him _alone_. Don't you jerks have something better to do than pick on a little kid, like get a brain? Leave him **_alone_**!"

On this last plea/demand, he pounded the mattress so hard, both jumped. The springs panged and the imaginary friend was hoisted into the air. However, so deeply asleep was he that he hardly noticed his flight. In fact, he settled back down with the exact same expression. This was no good- one of them had to alert Madame Foster, Frankie, or Mr. Herriman. Not only was he worrying them, but Mac was evidently in danger again.

"We _told _them we'd get them…" Wilt began uncertainly, placing a hand on Bloo's forehead. Bloo snarled, rolling over onto his side and baring his teeth. Eduardo squeaked, burrowing his head in his pillows. He poked an eye out cautiously.

"Maybe this es a dream," Ed murmured desperately, though he knew this was not the case. He had to find a way to explain Bloo's behavior short of the supernatural…and if it was indeed a dream, it would end soon. Bloo had been struggling and wrestling his blankets for over an hour. In fact, it was his screams over Mac that woke them in the first place.

Stillness, broken only by Coco's bizarre snores, swept the small room. Bloo lay dormant, like a volcano about to erupt if only given the proper signal. He quaked, jaw working furiously, and Wilt sighed heavily. Under his breath they caught snippets of threats, coaxing, and pleas. It was no good. They couldn't wait until he started randomly attacking things in his sleep and believing he was protecting Mac.

"I'll go get them…" Wilt sighed, resigned, and left Eduardo to peer anxiously over his friend. Meanwhile, in Bloo's 'dream', he did the same.

…

_Mac swallowed hard and presented a wrapped egg salad sandwich and cold cuts to the youth. Both hands trembled and, reaching into a concealed pocket, he gave him a small flagon of whiskey. The teen grabbed them eagerly, shoving him to the ground. Mac stared blankly up, unable to speak momentarily as he gulped down everything. He doubled over, his stomach killing him. _

_"Thanks for nothing, twerp!" he crooned, swigging the whiskey like one would water in a dessert. His vision blurred and he leered at him. Trembling, Mac drew against the wall and crept away until he backed himself into a corner. Bloo hissed, snapping, screaming, and doing whatever it required to get his attention. Yet again, nothing worked._

_He stepped away from the corner and the other boy slammed him back in. Every time Mac tried to retreat, he found himself at the receiving end of a punch, shove, or kick. Mac cried out, clutching his sore stomach. Not only did hunger gnaw, but he'd an iron punch there too. In fact, the instant he covered it, a fist beat down on his head like a drum. This was like Terrence, yet, somehow, worse because there were no holds barred. Terrence would never beat him to a pulp- this guy probably would._

_"Don't just stand there! Fight him!" Bloo cried, swinging his blobby arms in the arm. Unfortunately, Mac neither heard nor saw him. Instead, vision flickering, he attempted to waylay his attacks or avoid them. He managed to sidestep a punch to the gut only to be kicked in the groin. Like a sack, the child went down._

_"Stupid brat," he snickered, kicking him in the side. Mac moaned, curled in a fetal position. A few more kicks and then he left, tossing him the crusts and the bottle. It thudded hard against his head and his vision started to fade into black. _

_"Mac…why can't you hear me?" Bloo whispered and recognition flickered in the boy's eyes. His voice reached him from a distance, like the two were on opposite ends of a football field. The youth's laughter echoed back to them and Mac extended trembling fingertips towards Bloo, but the instant they came within a few inches, he passed out. In that same second, Bloo was shoved back to consciousness, bewildered, anxious, and upset._

…

"He made a connection," Madame Foster said confidently, stroking his sweaty brow. Herriman scowled, displeased, disbelieving, and slightly jealous. He and Madame Foster were supposed to be the only pairs close enough to affect each other's dreams or, in this case, actual events. They were the only ones to be able to read each other's emotions…not _him_. He had nothing against Master Mac, but the very idea of Master Bloo having those powers too made him feel, well, less special. What, so they were handing out powers to anyone who wanted it? It didn't matter that he hardly deserved it.

"Mac…come back to me…" Bloo murmured, curling up into a ball. Frankie frowned, dabbing his brow with a wet rag. She glanced at the creation/creator duo; maybe she was insane, but she thought she detected envy in his expression. That was preposterous. What would that rabbit have to be jealous of? Honestly, he was the head of Foster's, second only to her grandmother. He ran and or ruined people's lives. Bloo was just a blob compared to him with absolutely no power other than the one to irritate the hell out of him.

"What connection?" Frankie interjected, leaning onto the bed to cradle him in his arms. At least in his sleep he was innocent. Probably the only time in his life he hadn't done anything wrong.

Madame Foster offered her a weak smile. "Imaginary friends _have _seen their creators die because of those dreams. I wasn't fibbing. However, there are some pairs that can affect each other more deeply because their bond is that tight. I thought Mac and Bloo were that close, but I didn't want to give him false hope.

"Now all we have to do is hope Bloo can get through to him and get him to come home…"

_**If **he comes home…_Bloo thought, surprising himself with his pessimism.

…

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	6. Deterioration

Author's Note/Disclaimer: A quickie before I head off to dinner- thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I really do appreciate it. I love you all, I really do.

At any rate, I don't own Foster's and I never shall.

Chapter Six: Deterioration

Delicate tendrils of night ensnared his senses and he inhaled its sweet aroma. Evening meant sleep which meant eventually meeting up with his creator. All day long he'd been on pins and needles, literally jumping up and down agitatedly and then falling promptly asleep. Imaginary friends passed by and stared, nonplussed. Only one creature had anything to say and, for the most part, everyone ignored him.

Everyone except Madame Foster, that was. She'd caught his little jealousy bug through _their _bond and chastised him thoroughly, though she wasn't sure that had penetrated. Usually reminding him of rules and regulations worked, but glancing at his feelings told her that he'd the same opinions as before they chatted. Whatever bothered him obviously went deeper than the fact Mac and Bloo were like them.

Terrence had miraculously survived another day, but the guilt gnawed at him when he least expected it. He'd be sitting there, thinking about anything but class when he'd wonder where Mac was. A little voice would whisper "is he okay" and then he'd slam his head against the nearest book and silently berate himself for caring. He'd wanted him gone. He'd basically told him to f off. Why should he care where he was or whether he needed help?

Their mother was slowly starting to realize Terrence was holding back, but her weariness prevented her from probing him further. Whatever troubled him, perhaps he could seek guidance from someone else. She was drained enough putting food on the table and, on the side, glancing in the newspapers and talking to people to see if anyone had seen or heard from Mac. No one had.

Meanwhile, still utterly oblivious to this entire mess, Mac's father continued to clean up after the Powerpuff Girls and spend long nights reconstructing their "victories". He was about as exhausted as his ex wife and too much so to let his sons be more than a passing thought. He needed a break and he wasn't the only one.

* * *

Dreams, dreams, meaningless dreams. He hadn't dream of Mac all night and, punching his pillow furiously, he glared at the wall. They'd made a connection; he'd _felt _it, damn it. Why wasn't Mac responding? Was he consciously blocking him, panicked because he'd let him in too far? Was he too far gone to let Bloo in? Would he know if he got hurt while Bloo was awake and therefore less susceptible to capturing his emotions?

In a panic, he shut his eyes and commanded himself to sleep. Nothing. Not only couldn't he sleep, he couldn't feel him at all. It was like reaching into a bottomless hole. There was nothing to grasp, no hand to latch onto. Every passing second drove him further to the brink and he hugged himself, unable to stop shaking. There had to be an explanation for this, but he wasn't interested in it at the moment. The only thing he was interested in was seeing Mac again and that was it.

But no dreams of Mac came that night…or the next…

* * *

He'd taken to traveling during the day and sleeping at night. That way, whenever Bloo pushed at his consciousness, he had a valid reason to escape him. Otherwise, blocking him became rather cumbersome. Bloo pushed, shoved, and flung himself at the cracking mental wall between the two. He didn't want to just experience Mac's life; he wanted to have a part in it.

And the thought sent his creator into a panic. Without thinking, the instant they'd made that connection, he'd subconsciously vowed to never let him get that close again. And, to his credit, he'd done that fairly well. Any time Bloo probed, he shoved him away as rudely as he shoved his way in. Part of him lamented it, but he had to do this on his own, couldn't he see that? Sure, he hadn't done so well the first few times, but he was getting better. After all, he could block _him_, couldn't he?

Yet if he actually pondered it, blocking your five year old imaginary friend wasn't quite the same thing as acquiring food or shelter, both of which proved exceedingly difficult for him. Right now, he curled up inside a broken down house on the creaking wooden floor. Dust covered the little remaining furniture and the wind howled through cracks in the walls; Mac shuddered, too young to be alone in such a scary place. Desperately, he shoved away the notion he wanted Bloo, his mother, or even Terrence. He'd be fine.

A chill wind swept the room and he curled up in a ball, hugging his knees to his chest. The last time he'd eaten was because someone took pity on him and gave him half of their sandwich and he hadn't been properly warm since that car ride. Goosebumps arose on his arms and he rubbed them, stomach grumbling all the while. He was cold, hungry, and alone, not to mention exhausted. Tears brimmed to the surface.

"Bloo…" he whispered, eyelids drooping. Before he could protest or prevent it, he fell asleep and his imaginary friend crept past his security. The last thought he had was, _if only I'd asked Bloo…_

* * *

_Mac opened his eyes and frowned, rubbing his arms again. He could have sworn he'd fallen asleep, but this was the very room he'd passed out in. Boarded windows creaked in the steady gust outside, stray winds swept the dusty room, and a cloud of dust choked his throat and lined his lungs. Coughing, he stumbled forward and collapsed into a dingy, faded black stuffed armchair. The problem was, there was already someone in it._

_Wide eyed, worse for the wear since he'd left, sat his imaginary friend. Without thinking, he shoved him away and onto the floor. Still coughing, throat highly irritated, he looked up, bewildered. Bloo stared back, equally befuddled._

_"Okay, so where did you hole yourself up this time, buddy? You know, none of this would have happened if you'd just asked me to come along in the first place or actually _told _someone you were leaving," Bloo snapped, unaware that not only could Mac see him, he had heard him as well. _

_"You wouldn't understand," Mac replied, turning his back on him. Folding his arms across his chest, he surveyed his current sleeping quarters. The worst rooms in Foster's were a million times better than this. At the thought, his heart ached for home, but he knew he couldn't return there until his questions were answered and he knew where he stood._

_Unfortunately, he thought him to be an apparition, his subconscious's guilt striking. Therefore, he believed if he shoved him hard, he'd vanish. Clenching his eyes shut, he willed his imaginary friend away. Pivoting, he opened them only to find Bloo staring back. He huffed, folded his arms across his chest, and glowered. _

_"And I bet all you see is a stupid empty chair," he muttered, not registering the fact he'd replied to him. "I've been coming along with you for **how **long and you **still **can't hear me?"_

_"What are you talking about?" he replied, frowning. "I can hear you…and what do you mean, 'coming along with me'? I'm just dreaming you, aren't I? You aren't real."_

_Bloo reared back; at first so stunned he couldn't do any more than gawk. Fortunately, that lasted about ten seconds and then he was on his feet. Eyes narrowed to slits, he stepped forward, snatched his creator, and shook him by the shoulders. Mac stared blankly, unable to respond fully when he snarled and punched him hard in the gut._

_"I'll have you know I'm **quite **real and how **dare **you ignore me all that time! Do you know what I've been going through? You ran off on me without an explanation! I've got news for you, buster, I've been seeing everything you've gone through and I think you ought to start talking. Because I'm not leaving here until I find out what the heck is going on," he hissed, yanking him by his collar and shaking him like a rag doll. Slowly coming to his senses, Mac attempted to extricate his arm, but the hold was too strong._

_Dully, he stared back, his words slowly sinking in. He'd been seeing everything? Was that possible? Wait, did that mean this wasn't a dream? The punch in the stomach had felt real enough. Not to mention the heat filled gaze he gave him now. _

_"What…have you seen?" he murmured, stunned. Bloo finally released him to pace the room; little clouds of dust followed in his wake and he coughed, trying to suppress his reaction but failing miserably. _

_"Enough to know that for a nerd, you're pretty thick," he retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "You're really hopeless without me."_

_The words hadn't fully penetrated yet. "You saw…the truck driver? The kid? You…you were there?"_

_Though he knew already he'd been there, he wanted proof. He wanted to know (a), he wasn't going insane, and (b), he wasn't imagining his imaginary friend. Then again, if he was, then how could his stomach ache like this? How could his subconscious treat him so badly? _

_"Yes, darn it! What were you **thinking**? I **knew **that guy was no good, I **knew **that kid was going to hurt you, I **knew**-" he ranted, throwing up his arms and shaking them wildly. Outside, footsteps, boots knocking against wood, kicked the window's boards. Somehow, Mac doubted this was only in his head and swallowed hard._

_"Bloo, I have to go," he whispered, massaging his tender midsection. The boots grew louder and he heard someone prying the boards. In a few seconds, he'd be found and he'd rather be awake than asleep and vulnerable. _

_"No! You're not going anywhere, mister!" he screamed, flinging himself on him. Yet the world began to shimmer and he found himself vanishing in thin air._

* * *

Terrence swallowed hard, willing himself to pass his brother's room without thinking about his absence. Tonight his mother had started asking questions, ones he had to either avoid or simply not answer. His mouth had a tendency to betray him and right now, with his conscience nibbling away, he might let something slip. Even so, Mac's room felt emptier tonight than it had since he'd first left. He might not like him, he might resent him and wish he'd never been born, but he was starting to get a little worried.

_Okay, you can stop the joke. It's not funny anymore_, he thought, the moonlight illuminating a picture of him and Bloo on his bed stand. _It's really not._

"Mac hasn't been to school in four days, Terrence. He hasn't been _seen _since Monday. No one knows where he is," she'd cried, urgency creeping into her voice. "Tell me you know."

Guilt gnawing a hole in his stomach, he'd replied, "No idea, Mom."

Whenever she came home, she tied up the phone lines; she'd call anyone and everyone who might know anything, but the answer was always the same. They'd filed a police report (while Terrence stood by, looking anywhere but there), set them looking for him, but he'd heard what people muttered. He knew that people said that if someone wasn't found in forty eight hours, they were probably dead. Fortunately, his mother hadn't heard that one, because she was already broaching panic. A comment like that would send her over the edge.

Swallowing hard, he passed his room and halted, his mother's door open a crack. He cocked his head and listened attentively. Sobs permeated the hall and the lump in his throat grew larger. Forcing a smile, he opened the door and poked his head in.

"I'm sure the Astros will win next year, Mom," he said offhandedly, but she didn't even crack a smile. Red, swollen eyes scanned him anxiously.

"Mac might be…might be…" she whispered, unable to vocalize it. It was as if saying he could be would make it so.

"I'm sure he's fine," he lied, forcing a smile. "You know that little rascal…"

"_Please _tell me you know where he is. Or at least why he left. Please, Terrence. You're his older brother, he looks up to you. You're supposed to take care of him," she murmured, clutching her pillow for dear life. Her body convulsed in suppressed sobs.

"I…" he stammered, unable to speak.

"Okay, I know you like to bully him…but if you know anything at all…_anything_…"

Shaking his head, not trusting himself to speak because it might betray him, he walked out of the room. It was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut and he had the feeling the breaking point would be soon. He just wished he had it in himself to hate Mac like he thought he had...

* * *

Mr. Herriman observed Bloo coolly and frowned, folding his arms across his chest. Madame Foster had assigned each of them the task of checking up on Foster's resident troublemaker and ensuring any 'dreams' with Mac were dealt with swiftly. Of course, he'd insisted he could do this himself, but she'd insisted, rather, demanded, she share the duty. So now while he stared at him, she poked him with her cane. Blinking, he glanced down at her.

"There's no point in being jealous, Funny Bunny. Lots of imaginary/creator pairs can do that, some less bonded than those two. It doesn't make us less unique. It's the _magnitude _of the connection that matters, not whether it exists or not," she said and he stared, opening his mouth to protest. Extending her cane, she shut it for him.

"And you mark my words- it will be that bond that determines if Mac makes it out of his trials in one piece. Same as it's _our _bond that causes me to catch you freaking out over dogs and fretting over my safety," she said, smiling benignly.

"Mac and Bloo are close, yes, but we're closer. And this isn't a competition. There are no rules against them being bonded, especially considering how much they need each other.

"Now that we're all cleared up on that, the next time I see you threatening to throw Bloo out, my cane and your tail are going to have a nice meeting," she said, smirking. "Got that, Funny Bunny?"

Nodding primly, about to deny any such thoughts had passed through his mind, he found himself being hugged. In shock, he glanced down to see her arms firmly wrapped around him. He blushed, glancing around to make sure no one was watching and then patted her affectionately on the head.

As a matter of fact, he _did _feel much better.

* * *


	7. Separation

Author's Note/Disclaimer: I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, including the two anonymous reviews (who might have been from the same person). Well, here's the seventh chapter, hope you enjoy it. And anyone who knows me well will know what I'm hinting at in the final scene.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends is not mine.

Chapter Seven: Separation

Tears, crimson like the blood pouring down his cheek, mingled with sweat. Rain drenched the young eight year old and he shivered, hugging his soaked red sweater and white long sleeve to himself in a vain attempt to maintain warmth. Last night's windstorm escalated to a veritable thunderstorm, resplendent with howling gusts of wind and thunderous booms that shook him to his very marrow. He whimpered, wiping his face again.

Lightning illuminated the sky and, in the far distance, the dilapidated house he'd claimed his own for a mere four hours loomed in the background. He gingerly massaged his tender cheeks, both of which wore leather boot marks. Five minutes after breaking ties with Bloo, he'd awoken to find a man leering down at him and threatening him until he left. The bruises came because he hadn't been swift enough to either retaliate or protect himself.

However, this latest batch resulted from slipping headfirst into the mud and greeting a long, sharp rock with his cheek. Now a long, jagged scar ran under his right eye to the cheek and he winced, wishing the blood would cot. The only saving grace to this wretched endeavor was Bloo's disappearance- he'd rather not ponder the repercussions of his actions regarding his imaginary friend. It was one less thing to worry about…and with the amount of things going wrong, he certainly required a mini break.

Halting and narrowly sidestepping a car threatening to splash him in dirty water, Mac took stock of his situation. He was eight years, traveling alone on a deserted road and completely uncertain of both his destination and his current location; he was ravenous, parched, and drenched, not to mention horribly naïve and alone. He wished he'd never started this in the first place. He wished he were at home with Terrence because anything was better than this.

Tears streaked his cheeks but were indistinguishable in the veritable flood drowning him. Mac's body quaked and he hurriedly bit his lip, though why he was trying to prevent sobs was beyond him. Perhaps because tears were the last thing he had control over, considering everything else had gone terribly wrong, and he needed a little self control. Yet no matter how mature he might appear to be, no matter how well he handled his mother's taxes and paperwork, no matter how many times he'd made dinner for himself and Terrence, no matter what he told himself- he was essentially a lost little boy who longed for the comforts of home or at least his imaginary friend.

Head hung dejectedly low; he passed the sign announcing Citiesville, ten miles away. Unfortunately, this meant nothing to him, not knowing the geography of the world both he and the Powerpuff Girls resided in. Citiesville was the largest city around and about twenty minutes by car from Townsville. Unfortunately, it also had the largest crime rate and drug rate around. He was wandering out of the frying pan…and straight into the fire.

* * *

Bloo rolled over onto his stomach and stared up at the bunk Eduardo occupied. He clenched his eyes shut, suppressed a shudder, and attempted to force himself to sleep. When that didn't work, he swore mildly (what he conceived as a swear) under his breath and punched the pillow. Frustrated to no end, he growled and glared up.

What, all of a sudden he'd developed insomnia? This was insane. He never normally had a problem falling asleep, but now he couldn't if his life depended on it. He screamed into the pillow (and somehow managed to avoid waking anyone) and finally flung it aside, frustrated to no end. Maybe a warm glass of milk would make him drowsy.

Tossing aside the blankets haphazardly and muttering uncouthly under his breath, he shuffled out the door and towards the kitchen. His steps echoed in the empty hallways, unlit and foreboding in the darkness. Normally, he wouldn't mind treading the well worn path, but imagination and anxiety overwrought him. In the dark, anything and anyone could be someone waiting to spring on him. Worse, they could be waiting to spring on Mac since he wasn't there to protect him.

A single sliver of moon shone dazedly through an open window and cool air flooded the corridor. It carried a hint of winter on its lips, since it was now late November. He shivered, rubbing his lower half of his arms along the upper. Unfortunately, the chill had penetrated his heart, for which rubbing and snuggling under the covers would do little. Still, he was optimistic. Perhaps a little milk would cure what ailed him and ensure he prevented Mac from making another stupid mistake.

_Like abandoning me in the first place_, he thought, frowning. The next time he spoke to him, the outdoors were going to be the least of his concerns. When he-

Yet whispered voices in the hall silenced his rant. Creeping along the wall, he cocked his head in their direction. Frankie, Madame Foster, and Mr. Herriman were clustered around Frankie's door and all three shot ominous glances outward, as if they mentally sensed his presence. Fortunately, the dim light bathing the hall wasn't sufficient to expose him and he slowed his breathing just in case. However, he needn't have bothered- their discussion was heated enough to overlook him.

"And you were planning on telling him this _when_?" Frankie hissed, folding her arms across his chest. Mr. Herriman tapped his paw impatiently by her side and scrutinized his pocket watch. It was two thirty in the morning and Bloo knew intrinsically he was counting the wasted seconds of slumber. Either that or the two Fosters had captured him en route to the bathroom.

"It is none of his business! Now, if you two don't mind, I would like to regain the shut-eye ill afforded in this house and often interrupted-" he retorted, irritation creeping into his voice. He tapped his paw hard and nearly careened into Frankie's pink rabbit slippers. Blushing slightly, he shifted away before accidentally stepping on her foot.

"Hang on just a gosh darn minute, Funny Bunny! You're not going anywhere!" Madame Foster snapped, brandishing her cane. Herriman hung back, like a scolded schoolboy. Bloo bit back a snicker, always enjoying the imaginary rabbit being reprimanded by his creator. Of course, _he _was frequently chewed out by _his _creator, but because this was Herriman and Madame Foster, he found it greatly amusing.

"You weren't going to tell him?" the younger Foster asked, frowning, her red eyebrow vanishing into the nest of tumbled, disheveled auburn fire. A snug pink bathrobe concealed her sheer pink tank top and partially concealed her rabbit pajama bottoms. For someone who constantly wore a Powerpuff Girls' t-shirt, you'd think she'd wear that to bed instead. Yet the details escaped Bloo's eyes, probably because he was too busy wondering what they were keeping from him. In his mind, every conversation revolved around him and if it didn't, it should.

"Why should I? Unless the matter has arisen," Mr. Herriman replied, looking pained, "there is no need to alert him."

"Codswallop! He needs to be ahead of the times so when Mac tries to shove him away and keep him awake, he'll know!" Madame Foster retorted, pounding her cane on the floor. It was a miracle no one else awoke thanks to the clatter. Meanwhile, as Herriman swallowed hard and unwillingly focused his attention on his creator, Frankie cast him a sidelong look and stopped abruptly when her grandmother glanced at her instead. It was too dark to tell her reaction, unfortunately.

Nonetheless, Bloo was through with listening in. He burst out of the shadows and glared at the trio, Herriman unconsciously shifting further away from Frankie. Not troubling to keep his voice down, his mouth and his brain had a short agreement not to bother each other. Therefore, anything he said wouldn't have reached the top first. Unfortunately, this was pretty much common practice for him anyway.

"So _that's _the reason I can't sleep!" Bloo snapped, slamming his "foot" or whatever passed for it down on the wooden floor. No wonder Frankie and Madame Foster had slippers- it was cold. And Herriman, in his nightie- he stifled a snicker, deciding he was angrier with them than amused by his outfit.

"Mac's keeping me up!"

They exchanged an indiscernible look, Frankie and Herriman prolonging it perhaps longer than they should have, and then turned to him. Madame Foster took the opportunity to rap an unguarded rabbit on the backside with her cane and he leapt back with a yelp. She smirked, twirling it around, satisfied. Frankie smirked back.

Smirking at her creation, she fixed him with an "I told you so" smirk and then, rapping him again on the paw, but gently, she turned to Bloo. The same heights permitted her to speak, in her opinion, more clearly to him than anyone else. Frankie and Mr. Herriman hung back, oddly aware of how close they were and then shifting away a little more.

"He knows you're watching him, then," she replied calmly, ignoring the other two. Frankie yawned, covering her mouth since she didn't relish an etiquette lesson this early in the morning. Herriman, conversely, was too stiff and reserved to yawn, albeit in front of them.

"Well, of _course_ he knows I'm watching him! We _had _a dream together!" Bloo exploded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world and they were mentally handicapped not to understand it as simply as he did. Occupants in other rooms stirred, but had the common sense to remain in their rooms. Any argument between Bloo and Mr. Herriman was liable to get ugly.

"Did you now?" she replied calmly, an eerie silence coating them. Frankie hovered indecisively towards her door, since she knew well enough that this didn't concern her in the slightest. Herriman moved forward slightly and she halted guiltily, like escaping the situation was somehow an infraction of the rules.

"_Duh_! Now, how do I get him to let me back in?" he replied impatiently. Madame Foster and Herriman now exchanged a look and Bloo pounded his foot on the floor; he was sick of all these stupid looks. Why couldn't anyone tell him what the hell was going on here? What, he wasn't important enough to know? Well, Herriman evidently thought that, but he never really cared what he thought anyway.

"That…depends. You might not be able to get back in…" she murmured, wondering how much she could entrust him with. Herriman frowned, shaking his head vehemently. Apparently, in his opinion, a little was too much.

"_What_?" he fired back, hopping up and down in outrage. "What do you mean, 'not be able to get back in'? Mac's going to let me back in or I'll, I'll-"

"You'll _what_?" Herriman snapped, exhaustion and temper getting the better of him. "Threaten him to death when he can't even hear you? You'd have better luck if you simply tried avoiding dreaming of him for a few days and then slipped back in once his defenses were lowered again."

He blinked, glancing around, abashed. Madame Foster gave him an encouraging smile and he blushed softly, standing upright proudly. Frankie was torn between rolling her eyes and smiling encouragingly as well and simply folded her arms across her chest. Bloo stared, sensing a mental undercurrent between creator and creation.

"I think a couple days ought to do the trick, dearie," she said consolingly, but Bloo was far from soothed. He gawked, completely at a loss. Not see Mac for two days? It was bad enough he couldn't contact him and he was alone, traveling to who knows here- but now he couldn't even protect him from afar or try to? If the last few days were any indication, the book smart eight year old wouldn't survive the lapse.

"But what if-" he protested, unnerved.

"Then he'll come to you, one way or another."

* * *


	8. Revelations

Author's Note/Disclaimer: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. If you're not doing that, why not? C'mon, reviews are nice.

At any rate, Foster's does not belong to me. New eppie on tonight for us United States viewers. Yay.

Chapter Eight: Revelations

Shivering, drenched once again, and exhausted, Mac clung desperately to the railing as the contents of his stomach rebelled again. It was amazing what dire straits caused a person to do. When he had a roof over his head, steady meals, and a warm bed, he'd never have looked twice at garbage cans or their refuse. Now, driven nearly out of his mind by starvation, having only eaten one meager sandwich three days ago, he'd followed the smell of food anywhere. Unfortunately, that source and his stomach were having a rather violent disagreement.

Bile rose in his throat accompanied by vomit and he willed himself to keep it down. Clenching his eyes shut tightly, he forced himself to think about anything other than his stomach's upheavals, his gnawing hunger, the shudders that rocked his body, or his sodden clothing. It was difficult, but not impossible. It just required more focus and energy than he possessed at the moment.

Hugging himself tightly and slumping down by the bridge's side, he curled up on the sidewalk. It was late night and only the occasional car choked his air. _Still_, he thought, quaking so badly he thought he was going to die, _maybe I'd better get off before I get hit_.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, he grabbed the railing for dear life. Since the Powerpuff Girls destroyed the bridge nearly a year ago, they'd fixed it with exceedingly shoddy parts. The railing barely withstood his weight and for a split, terrifying second, he thought he would pitch headfirst into the water. Another spasm whipped his body; he whimpered and slowly edged his way down. Maybe underneath the bridge would be safer…and maybe he could keep his pilfered dinner down. He doubted it, though.

Slipping and sliding on the rocks, his foot caught on a particularly large one and he tumbled, landing on his stomach in a large mud puddle. It splattered all over him and he sputtered, spitting out soil, pebbles, and pollutants. Everything about Citiesville was corrupt, down to the people who flung things at him instead of helping and the three robbers who tried to hold up an obviously broke eight year old. He'd been too drained to do much more than let them find out for themselves he was broke and then dart for his life.

Finally, struggling to find purchase, he crept into a tunnel created when the original bridge collapsed. Bits of rubble partially covered the entrance and if he moved more, he might actually have a place safe from the elements. It was sad, that such a basic thing should actually please him when normally, he wouldn't notice. Then again, there were many things he wouldn't have noticed beforehand.

Curling up again, he hugged his knees to his chest and permitted his mind to wander. He was too cold to sleep, but he contented himself picturing whatever Bloo was doing at the moment. Closing his eyes, he weakly called out to him. Of course, he had no idea how this bond was supposed to work and sincerely disbelieved anything would come of his mental cry.

* * *

Bloo was fast asleep, warm and safe in his bed. Dinner, mac and cheese, had settled nicely in his stomach and he'd even taken a bath that night. Clean, satiated, and comfortable, he'd no trouble falling asleep swiftly. In fact, his mind hadn't drifted to his creator at all, perhaps because he was too preoccupied with beating Coco's new high score on a video game. He dreamt simply, picturing himself as head of Foster's and bossing Mr. Herriman around when something, or, rather, someone interrupted.

* * *

_He reappeared underneath a creaky, rusted bridge. Stone surrounded him and a breeze whistled through the gaps in the rocks. The wind carried a hint of rain (it'd poured the last few days) and, treading a few feet, dirt squelched underneath him. He couldn't imagine **anyone **living here. After all, he'd passed a few rats traversing this odd configuration of rubble and rubbish._

_Scowling, wondering what on earth he was doing here, of all places, he nearly tripped over a bump against the makeshift wall. It shifted, the only creature to perceive his arrival. He opened his mouth to snap at the bum when the words died on his lips. This was no bum-it was Mac. _

_"Mac?" he murmured, shocked. Snatching a couple of rocks, he struck them together but to no avail. The boy's eyes followed his translucent arms and, taking the hint, created a fire. Light flooded the tunnel and Bloo fell to his knees. He could scarcely believe this was the same boy he befriended years ago and had seen in real life nearly a week ago._

_Shadows threw his face into sharp contrast- too many lines and bags for an eight year old boy to have. His clothing was baggier than usual and when he smiled weakly at his imaginary friend, the smile did not extend to his eyes. The longer they gazed at each other, the solider Bloo felt. He flexed experimentally and glanced downward only to discover that he was almost completely here this time. He had form, he could actually **touch **things, and…the sheer amount of emotions he caught in Mac's face was enough to almost steal his breath away. Almost, because he was too furious to pity him at the moment._

_Exhaling sharply, he tentatively crept towards him and enveloped him in as tight a hug as he could manage. Bloo sunk slightly into his chest, but not as much as he would have before. It seemed the more Mac wanted him, the stronger his presence became. However, he wasn't going to give him the benefit of the hug first because that closeness reminded him, yet again, of his fury. _

_"Bloo…you came…" he whispered. "I didn't think you heard me call. I didn't think you **could**-"_

_Struggling out of his arms, he swung his arm back and slapped him hard across the face. Though he wasn't entirely solid, the force was sufficient to leave a red mark on his cheeks and, when he massaged it, he discovered it actually ached. Blinking, he glanced down at the quivering blue mass. He drew his arm back again and Mac found himself on the defensive, trying unsuccessfully to halt his assault. _

_"What did you think you were doing, leaving me there? I couldn't even see you for two days because you threw me out! I didn't know what you were doing and what stupid things you'd done because you didn't have me around-" Bloo snapped, stopping to berate him._

_Rubbing his sore face, he shoved his imaginary friend away. Rising to his feet, his eyes blazed furiously. His fists balled and he took several threatening steps towards him. Surprised by the turn of events, Bloo retreated. He couldn't tell if it was starvation, illness, or rage causing his friend to shake like a leaf. _

_"Is that so?" Mac replied, voice low and dangerous. "I guess the other stupid thing I did was call on you in the first place. Next thing you know, I'll tell Terrence he was right about our father and why he left-"_

_He halted, realizing too late Bloo had no idea what he was talking about. Fortunately, he barged right now with his argument until the information registered. Blinking, he stared, nonplussed, at him. He wasn't quite sure what was going on here (not that had ever stopped him before)._

_"Wait? Terrence? Your father? What does that have to do with anything?" he replied, bewildered. "Don't confuse me."_

_"Nothing! Forget I mentioned it!" he squawked, sinking to his knees again, but it was too late. Once Bloo discovered a new mystery, he wouldn't let it fade away until he pried it apart. Already, wheels churned in his head and he smirked, waiting for him to let more slip. Mac turned away, ashamed he'd blurted out such an important thing in the first place._

_"I know- Terrence killedyour father, buried his body somewhere, and now you're trying to find it and raise it from the dead!" he bubbled, grinning widely. Mac slapped a hand to his forehead. Terrence might be a lot of things, but a murderer was not one of them. He longed to wrap his mental shell around himself and retreat, but he couldn't. He'd let him in this far and the closer he got to him, the harder it was to separate himself before he got in too deep._

_"No," he said flatly and hugged his knees to his chest. If he couldn't enact the mental one, then his body language would communicate his retreat. He stared over the top of his head and into the darkness beyond. A rat skittered by and he shuddered, freezing despite the fire's heat. He thought he'd never be warm again._

_"He left because he discovered how ugly and stupid his son is and decided that-" he blathered on, unaware of his creator's eyes welling with tears. Mac's deafening roar silenced him and induced his own shudder._

_"No!" he snapped, hugging himself tighter than before. Silence descended upon the tube and it was a few seconds before either spoke again. Bloo stared, taken back by the sheer amount of pain reflected in his eyes. Truth be told, they'd never discussed his father or anything before his creation. He'd always assumed Mac either didn't have a father or something had happened to him early on. He hadn't worried about it, though. _

_"No…" he murmured, the shout taking more out of him than he'd anticipated. The next few words escaped him barely above a whisper, causing Bloo to lean forward to catch them._

_"Terrence thinks he left because of…me. That everything would have been fine if I hadn't been born…" _

_Trailing off, he recalled the argument in crystal clarity._

* * *

_**(Nearly a week ago)**_

"You disobeyed Mom," Terrence snapped, misty grey eyes blazing. "You had no business going."

Mac paused, backpack hanging off his right shoulder. He'd just gotten back from one of the largest disappointments in his life and here was Terrence, making it worse. He was in no mood for an argument, particularly on this particular subject. However, maybe if he ignored him, he'd go away. It was worth a shot.

"I bet he ran away."

He pivoted, mouth agape. There was a bizarre expression on his brother's face, somewhere between triumph and hatred. He scrutinized it, hoping he could predict future damage. He wasn't even close.

"So what if he did?" he replied, folding his arms across his chest. "It doesn't matter."

"Sure it does. He ran away because of _you _the first time and he still can't stand the sight of you," he snapped. Mac shook his head, dispelling the deep, clandestine fears his words produced, and started towards his room. Terrence followed.

"Look, I have a lot of homework to do, so if you're done-"

"I'm not. You know, this family would be perfect if _you _weren't in it. Dad left right after you were born. I remember. I remember the last thing they talked about- how much of a hassle _you _were. Dad could have dealt with me just fine, then _you _had to come along and ruin everything," he snapped and Mac shuddered, having the sensation he'd longed to say this for some time now and had simply waited for the proper moment.

"That's not true," he snapped back, but his blood ran cold. It could very well be true, for all he knew.

"Dad came back into town to try to patch things up with Mom, but only if _you _were out of the picture. He saw you and the first thing he did was run. He'd rather be a deadbeat dad than be _your _father," he hissed.

"But he's _your _father too," he pointed out, struggling against the trepidation seizing him. What if he was right? What if he _was _the reason they didn't have a father? What if everything _had _been fine until he came around? He didn't want to bear the burden of breaking apart a family. But what if it were true…

"And he would still be here, too, if it weren't for _you_. He never even thought of leaving until you came around. It's all your fault."

"You're lying…" he whispered, retreating into the sanctity of his room. Terrence flung up an arm to prevent his entrance and he bumped into him. There was nothing brotherly in his expression, not even remotely close.

"Didn't you ever wonder why Mom doesn't talk about him around you? She's ashamed."

The color drained from his face and he ground his fists into his eyes to stem the flood of tears. He glanced down at his feet instead of him. It was true, everything. Their mother never discussed their father, he _had _left when Mac was a toddler, and he _had _run when he saw him. It all fit in a bizarre, painfully obvious way. _He _had driven him away. There was no other explanation.

"I'm surprised Mom puts up with you. I mean, you broke up her marriage. You ruined a family and tore us apart. You made us who we are."

"No…" he whispered, slapping his hands over his ears. "No…"

"Yes." He grabbed his arms, yanked his hands off, and whispered the last word in his face. He swallowed hard, glancing away. His brother's eyes were too piercing, his words too hateful to stand.

"You made Dad run away. You made Mom work long hours to support us. You destroyed our happiness. You did it all."

"No…" he cried, voice choked by suppressed sobs. Terrence nodded, cementing his claims, and, unable to take any more, Mac pivoted on his heels and stomped out. He scribbled a quick note to Bloo and his mother and took off. He had to prove Terrence wrong. The truth was too horrible to bear.

* * *

_Bloo stared in disbelief. His creator was sobbing openly, burying his face in his hands. He placed an awkward hand on his shoulder and the instant he accepted his comfort, the world faded and vanished. Against his will, Bloo was waking up._

* * *

Frankie gently shook the small blue blob until he awoke, eyes blazing. He began to snap something at her, but she ignored him. Crossing the room, she opened the window and gestured outside. He flung himself out of bed and followed her outstretched arm.

"Terrence is here to see…_you_."


	9. Confrontation

Disclaimer/Author's Note: Sorry about the delay. I had a wee bit of author's block, but I cleared that up. So if some of it feels awkward, that's because it was forced. (pulls a face)

At any rate, enjoy. Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to the great Craig McCracken (as does Powerpuff Girls) and not to me.

Chapter Nine: Confrontation

Wind whistled overhead, the only sound aside from the blood pounding in Bloo's inner ears. Fury boiled his blood, blinded his sight, and curled his appendages into what passed for fists. The grass rustled underneath their feet and a bird chirped, unaware of the stalemate occurring. The instant Terrence spoke, he swore he was going to rip him a new one.

"I know I'm not really wanted here-" he began uncertainly, glancing around as if he had a cavalry waiting. Well, he needn't worry. He hardly needed an arm to beat the living crap out of him. His own body would suffice. It had in the past.

Truth be told, Bloo didn't even know where to begin with that statement. Silence descended and he shifted uncomfortably. Typical; he probably had no idea why the imaginary blob was glaring hatefully at him. Either that, or it hadn't penetrated that thick head. He'd be glad to illuminate him…and shed some heat on parts of his body normally warm enough.

"Of course you're not wanted here, but you barged in and came anyway! Just like you told Mac that it was his fault that his father left! I've got some choice words for you, buster!" Bloo snapped, jumping up and grabbing him by the collar. He sneered in his face, then grabbed his cheeks to headbutt him. Terrence reared back, rubbing his sore temples, but he wasn't finished with him. He hopped up again, wishing height wasn't against him, and punched him hard in the stomach.

Terrence doubled over, clutching his stomach, and promptly fell on his rear. Dazed grey eyes scrutinized Bloo, chest heaving and eyes narrowed to slits. He glared and then immediately hopped onto his chest. However, if he thought he actually weighed anything substantial, he was wrong. The teenager sat up, wincing, and glanced at the imaginary friend in his lap. Pure, unadulterated hatred surged through him.

"What the…? How do you…?" he moaned, confusion about to be replaced with anger. For the moment, he was too bewildered to do anything but groan and stare, perplexed. Bloo continued to glower; the physical embodiment of rage.

"He told me!" he ranted, completely unaware not only did Terrence not have the slightest idea what he was talking about, he was actually pacing back and forth on his legs. Naturally, it wasn't that far, but nonetheless, arms flailing, he shifted. Grey eyes followed his progress.

"Uh…how?" he said dumbly. "Did he call you or something?"

_If he did, then maybe he told him where he is and Mom will come pick him up. Then, I'll be off the hook and this little **thing **can go back to annoying someone else. If he doesn't stop doing that, I'm going to smash him against my thigh._

"No, he didn't _call _me!" he snapped, sighing exasperatedly. He spoke as if Terrence were an incredibly slow two year old who couldn't grasp the simple concept of dream sharing. Of course, the concept wasn't _that _simple, but it was still too complicated for him to grasp without Bloo explaining himself at least three times. Maybe that blow to the head had affected his motor skills- or maybe he'd always been this stupid. Bloo was banking on the latter.

Once he had, he frowned lightly and said something that took him by surprise. It was actually intelligent, having been brought on by his pondering of the situation. Just because he preferred not to think didn't mean he couldn't. It meant he disliked it since it made his brain hurt, but this was important. Besides, he didn't relish another beating at the hands of his stupid little imaginary friend. And, at that, he shoved him off his lap and aimed a punch square for his head- but he dodged like a whack a mole.

"If you can dream about him, can't you tell where he is?" he said, kicking out at him. Bloo used his momentum to send him backwards into the mailbox. It struck him in the middle of his back, but he remained standing. A very nasty look crossed his features, perhaps to compete with Bloo's equally animus one.

"I can't because I don't know! It's awfully hard to tell the difference between one pipe and another!" he snarled, curling his lower arms. "Now if you don't mind, I've got better things to do than deal with _you_."

"You…don't know…" he repeated dully, incredulous. Bloo watched him stalk off and huffed. Served him right.

* * *

Terrence huddled against the wind and only cast Bloo one last glance before stomping off through the leaves. His eyes narrowed to slits- when he wasn't guilt wracked, he'd be sure to pay him back double for his treatment. Stupid little boy blob, feh. What gave him the right to pass judgment? He hadn't been there; he didn't know what he was going through. He had no idea the years of resentment churning within the thirteen year old nor the seething hatred that had erupted during the argument. Nor did he know the guilt pangs he now suffered due to the eruption. No, he knew nothing and therefore, should have kept his damn mouth shut.

Still, what was he to do now? His only lead turned dry and in lieu of information, he had a heavy conscience. If Mac hadn't called anyone or slipped his whereabouts, then it was another late night with his mother crying herself to sleep and a sleepless one for him. The cycle would never break.

* * *

His legs quaked under him; his whole body protested. Today, he'd walked all the way to Townsville and now, he was about ready to collapse. Fortunately, while he thought this, his body denied it. As long as he kept moving, he wouldn't have to think about anything else.

Rubble from buildings the Powerpuff Girls had destroyed littered the streets and overhead, men labored to reconstruct. Of course, many were of the opinion it was a worthless endeavor since the girls were bound to destroy more in a matter of hours, but a job was a job. Those who were desperate took it eagerly. Or, in the case of a certain brown haired individual munching a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, trying to make ends meet and forget about his two sons.

He was about average height with stormy grey eyes, a ruddy complexion, and scraggly brown hair. Age lines decorated his face as well as a few bags. Working in Townsville ensured you had to be ready for anything, including having your domicile destroyed. And, unlike most of the denizens, he really didn't particularly enjoy monster attacks, an evil monkey, and the assortment of villains thanks to the girls' powers. Fortunately, he kept his mouth shut.

Today had been oddly uneventful. No monster attacks, actually nothing out of the ordinary. He ought to have been worried.

Mac stumbled, fainting right before him. A cloud of dust and soil flew up and he coughed once, and then fell silent. The man before him placed aside his sandwich, knelt down, and scooped him up.

* * *

_Bloo, once again, had no idea where he or his creator were. However, he semi approved of his surroundings. At least it was warm and, for once, Mac was nestled within the confines of a large, luxurious bed. Then again, compared to the pipe he'd slept in last night, it was probably heaven to him. _

_He crept closer to him, all the while eying the room capriciously. The walls were white, covered occasionally by posters. A picture on the dresser drew his attention and, shifting away from his creator, he examined it. A small, messy raven haired boy held an infant with brown hair while their mother looked on, an older man's arm around her waist. It took him a while to identify the grey eyes, considering the child was not wearing his customary smirk. He was actually…happy._

_Blinds hung over a dingy window and there was some mildew on the walls. Not the best place to live by far, but not terrible considering some of the indemnities he'd incurred in Mac's apartment. A squashy armchair sat in front of a small color TV with a pair of antennae atop (no cable- that had to be criminal); a diminutive desk was overlaid with papers and pens, all in an untidy sprawl across the top. An uncomfortable chair accompanied it. _

_The breeze filtered in through the window as well as some sunlight. The sun, however, was setting and the breeze grew chiller. In the corner of the room, a heater kicked in and eased any cold. All together, if he had to live there, he'd decline, but he could understand someone else residing there. After all, not everyone could live luxuriously._

_Mac's eyes fluttered, already slowly rousing. He beheld his imaginary friend, but his eyes lingered on the photograph. Cogs and wheels that hadn't processed properly in Bloo's brain worked like quicksilver and a smile spread across his face. It spread to his eyes, the first genuine smile he'd worn since this expedition began. Bloo, who hadn't quite figured out what on earth he had to be joyous about, opened his mouth to protest when a haggard man entered the room._

_Unlike Mac, whose gaze shot from his imaginary friend to this man, the adult's eyes only caught Mac's. Like in other worlds, Bloo was invisible to everyone but his creator. However, that didn't stop him from hovering protectively in front of his creator. He snarled threats that only his creator heard and he rolled his eyes. Nonetheless, he refrained from silencing him aloud. He wasn't certain he could perceive him like he did._

"_I should have figured you would chase after me…" he murmured, dragging his fingers through his hair and sighing heavily. His eyes trailed across the bedspread instead of the child within the sheets. _

"_Dad…"Mac whispered, trying the word out on his lips. It felt foreign, but not entirely unpleasant. Bloo jumped, scrutinizing the picture, his creator, and the man before them. Not all the pieces fell into place just yet. Instead, he crouched, ready to pounce if need be. _

"_Does your mother even know you're out here?" he frowned, and was about to launch into a lecture when he flung himself into his arms. Bloo balked, attempting to wrench him away. Unfortunately, he had no substance again and slipped helplessly away. On the floor, he gaped up at the two and the photo once more. Everything fell into place- the grey eyed child in the photograph was Terrence. The baby was Mac…and the two adults were his parents. _

_Awkwardly, he placed his arms around his son and Mac let his fevered emotions escape him in a single howl. He shivered, wondering whether it was safe to release it all, when his stomach answered for him. Sheepishly, he glanced up to see his father frown disapprovingly. His eyes swept his frame and, without another word, he scooped him up into his arms and deposited him on the brown carpet._

"_First things first, young man. A meal and then a shower. Then we'll talk." _

_Mac grinned…and Bloo stood, thunderstruck._

* * *


	10. Truth

Author's Note/Disclaimer: This chapter was so intense, I had to take a walk in the middle of it. It might not be for you guys, though. I dunno.

Foster's is not nor ever will be mine.

Chapter Ten: Truth

_Finally warm, Mac clutched a blanket to his chest and sighed happily, the contents of his recent meal resting joyfully in his stomach. His clothes, freshly cleaned, fit snugly around and for the first time in a matter of days, he felt safe and protected. He'd slept, eaten, and taken a shower- everything normal children took for granted. The rain pitter pattered patiently against the window panes and he sat, content to merely listen and soak in his appreciation of a roof. A smile broke out across his face and he glanced immediately at Bloo._

_Bloo perched on the armrest and glared at his father out of the corner of his eyes. Mac, surprised, edged closer. His imaginary friend muttered uncouthly, things he'd heard him say in reference to Terrence, but never in regards to this. Every once in a while, he'd break off, glance at Mac and then his father, and continue anew. Meanwhile, he labored in the kitchen._

_"Well, when are we going home?" Bloo snapped, venom taking Mac by surprise. He blinked, befuddled. Go home? But he'd only just arrived! Why would he think of leaving? _

_"Why…why don't you like him?" he murmured, careful to keep his voice down since only he could hear him. He didn't need his father thinking him insane, though his recent acts might say otherwise. Desperately, he wanted to make a good impression; secretly, he hoped to coax him to return and give them the father they'd missed. Perhaps it was because he was young, naïve, gullible, but he longed for a father like every other child._

_Too long had he stood on the brink of the playground and heard the children chatter about their parents while he sat alone under the slide and wondered why this was his fate in life. Why his mother had to work extra long to support them and his father was MIA. Why whenever they had father son events at school, he watched them with a heavy heart. Why whenever someone brought up the grand things their father had done for them and the activities they partook in, his eyes would well up with unshed tears._

_"**Duh**, Mac, he abandoned you!" he spat and the boy glanced away, the truth more than he could bear. _

_When it came to the truth, people can be rather skilled in avoiding it when it pains them. Such was the case with young Mac. He preferred to believe his father was the superhero he'd envisioned him to be who simply had to leave rather than the man who had willfully abandoned his sons and left them to their mother. He'd rather not think along that other path- it was the one that had led him here in the first place._

_"He's changed!" he cried, not sure who he was convincing- Bloo or himself. Whatever the instance, his plea fell pitifully short and he nodded disbelievingly. A terrible ache wormed its way into Mac's heart and he was tempted to curl up under the sheets and release the pain inside through any means necessary._

_"Sure he has, buddy. Sure he has."_

_Conversation silenced at the arrival of his father, but Bloo's azure eyes blazed upon his entrance. Though he could not be seen, heard, or felt by the older man, he placed himself protectively in front of his creator. He put up his lower arms in fists and posed, lunging and thrusting. Anyone viewing the whole peculiar scene might have wondered who to pity- the delusional little boy or his imaginary friend's sad attempts to waylay any danger. Truthfully, it was a tie at best. At worst, it was heartrending._

_His father sat heavily down in the patched armchair opposite his son and frowned, sensing another presence but unable to identify it. Shaking his head, he instead scrutinized Mac and unconsciously calculated what physical features he inherited from him. Unabashed, he held up his head so he might see everything. Desperation, loneliness, and hope all shimmered simultaneously in his chestnut eyes and he glanced away, heart tugging at its strings. If this kid wasn't careful, he was going to get his heart broken._

_"That was a very irresponsible thing you did," he began awkwardly, innately slipping into his patriarchal role. Actually, it had started once he discovered Mac on the ground. Without realizing it, he'd developed a kinship with the boy and, moreover, a subconscious desire to be more than the absentee father around him. Lamentably, at the moment, he was not ready to admit to such a thing._

_"Like **you **have the right to say that!" Bloo thundered, hopping to his 'feet' and flinging himself at him. He growled in his face, but the adult neither heard nor felt him. He might as well have been growling at the wall for all the good it did. _

_"You were out of his life for years and now, all of sudden, you think you can boss him around?" he screamed and Mac hung his head. All the emotions a three year old oughtn't to have, including deep seated resentment, had apparently been buried within Bloo. Either that, or he was trying his hand at being a real friend. In either case, he wished he'd be quiet. His eyes were growing hot._

_"Dad…" he whispered and Bloo hopped up again. His azure eyes blazed and he grabbed his father by the collar. _

_"He doesn't have the right to be called that! He's not your father! He's just a bum!" Bloo screamed, pounding his fists ineffectually against his chest. A lump surfaced in Mac's throat that would not leave. Part of him wished Bloo would be quiet and his turbulent emotions would vanish. But, on the other hand, he wished fervently Bloo was here, that his words would reverberate anywhere but in his head. Because he was right…and he knew it. And that was what hurt the most._

_"I…I have to talk to you…" Mac whispered, losing heart. He'd created Bloo to be his voice, but he'd left it behind. So all he was was a shell of a child, unable to communicate properly and a failure. He was just like what Terrence said. He didn't deserve his father._

_"So do I," his father countered, but halted when he saw him hang his head shamefully. Bloo jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest and snarled, too occupied with his tirade to notice his creator's plight. Indeed, in the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten everything else. _

_"You could have been hurt, you could have been killed-"_

_"And…and…" he faltered and glanced hopelessly at Bloo. _Let me talk as openly as you do…for once. Let me be as bigmouthed as you are. Please. I can't handle this.

_"And you're a lousy father!" Bloo finished. The more his imaginary friend spoke, the more Mac deflated. Bloo was boisterous, confident, and everything he couldn't be. Why couldn't he bring himself to say what was on the tip of his tongue? The words Terrence had screamed at him at the beginning of the week? The part of him that would have died to find out the truth? Why wouldn't it surface? What was wrong with him?_

_"And I'm calling your mother," he finished, reaching towards the phone, but both Bloo and Mac recklessly snatched his arm away. Their arms overlapped; fecklessness invaded his blood stream and ripped his self consciousness off. He rose, breathing raggedly, seeing only his father and no one else. Bloo blinked, glancing between his creator and his father. This might get interesting yet._

_"Why? So you can keep passing me off? Is that why you left? You couldn't stand the sight of me? That's what Terrence said. He said I'm the reason you left. Is that true? Would you, mom, and him have been better off if I wasn't born? Did I screw everything up?" he blurted, tears brimming to the surface. Angrily, he rubbed his eyes with his fists. Right now, he was too frustrated and furious to waste time on tears. It simmered over, filling his body and heating him from the inside. His whole frame trembled and he found he liked it. He rarely got this excited, but when he did, a secret part of him relished the power anger held over him. _

_"Did I waste your life? Am I worthless? Is everything my fault?" he called, unable to stop himself. Bloo stared, stunned. Mac's accusations came too quickly for him to refute and, personally, he was rather flabbergasted. His mouth hung agape and he could do no more than shake his head slightly._

_"I…I had to know, Dad. I had to know why you left. Was it because of me?" he continued, voice dropping. "Was I a mistake?"_

_Silence filled the room as Mac drew a deep, shaky breath, Bloo stared disbelievingly, and his father stared at his son. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say and the amount of fury emanating from him was positively frightening. If he was this furious, it stood to reason that Terrence was even more so. He'd always thought his sons would be better off with only their mother…but was he right? Or had he been unduly selfish?_

_"Mac," he said bracingly, waiting to see if the boy was done. He was indeed, but he breathed like a wounded horse. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his chest heaved. Out of his long bangs, chestnut eyes glared out at him and he shuddered, retreating naturally from them. He was too young to be this jaded._

_"Tell me." The words were no longer delivered in orders, but a plaintive cry. Bloo shifted closer and tentatively touched his shoulder. Mac shrugged it off._

_"The reasons why I left are…complicated," he said, rising from his chair and turning away so he didn't have to look at him. Again, that presence hovered nearby, the one he couldn't see, much less identify. If he extended his "inner eye", he sensed it attempting to comfort him. However, Mac continued to shrug and slide away._

_"I came here to hear them. I'm not leaving until I do."_

_The words hung heavily in the air and he finally turned around to meet his gaze. The glare had softened, but it was still potent. He sighed, gesturing he come closer. He knew when he'd been bested and when it was time to stop protesting. Besides, he deserved to hear what a loser his father was. It was only right._

_"You want to know why I left, Mac? I left because I thought I didn't know how to be a father. It was never about you. It was about the mounting responsibilities with Terrence, my job, and our straining marriage. It was about how pressured I felt to raise a child according to whatever standards people put out. It was about thinking that if I took a little time away, everything would be all right again._

_"But that little time stretched into days, which stretched into months, which stretched into years. I haven't spoken to your mother since you were three, Mac. I thought running away would solve my problems- it only brought new ones. _

_"Now I have to live with the guilt I might have made the most selfish decision of my life and there's nothing I can do to fix it. I see now that years of resentment have hardened Terrence, at least, to the idea of me. And I can't say I blame him…I felt the same way about **my **father._

_"Feel free to hate me as well. I've done nothing to warrant otherwise."_

_Once he finished, both Mac and Bloo were dumbstruck. Bloo was first to recover, muttering agreeably to his last statement. Mac, however, was not as convinced. He gazed at his father anew, finally realizing that he wasn't the superhero he'd built up in his mind. He was just human. And that, within itself, was almost as crushing as Terrence's words. _

_"I…" he began, but no words would come. _

"_I…don't hate you. I…I don't like what you did, but I don't hate you. I just want you to come home."_

_Eyes brimming with unshed tears, he reached out and drew Bloo into his arms. The squawking, protesting imaginary friend struggled madly, aghast at what he'd just uttered and enraged at his father. He 'cursed' and fought valiantly, but Mac's grip was too strong._

_Smiling weakly, his father shook his head. "It's not that easy, kiddo. Life rarely is." _

_"Come home, **please**," he begged. _I don't care if it isn't easy. We need you.

_"We'll see."_

* * *


	11. Confessional

Disclaimer/Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. If you're not, I won't respond to your comments. Heh.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends does not belong to me.

Chapter Eleven: Confessional

"All right, maybe I made him run away!" Terrence snapped into the relative silence of the apartment. He paced angrily, glared at the mirror, and heaved a tremendous sigh. For the last few hours, he'd been rehearsing how exactly to tell his mother about Mac without implicating himself. Unfortunately, every excuse was feebler than the last. He was growing exceedingly frustrated.

Telling her Mac had gone plumb crazy, screamed at him, and then took off wouldn't work either. But he couldn't tell her the truth- he'd decided on that a while ago. After all, explaining to her not only had he permitted Mac to take off, but he hadn't told her a week ago would put him in possibly the biggest trouble of his life. Besides, it wasn't like it was _completely _his fault. Er, right?

Yet the nightmares he had involving his younger brother and horrific deaths, including one where he awoke screaming, convinced Mac had been run over by a tractor trailer, told a different story. The guilt was burning into him and searing any chances of a normal day. It destroyed his dreams, obliterated sleep, and reduced him to _this_. He'd never suspected before that not only did he have a conscience, but that he actually cared about him enough to enact it. Sighing, he dragged his fingers through his unruly hair and glared at his reflection as though it had betrayed him.

Yes, lay the blame on someone else so he didn't have to think about the repercussions of his actions. Unfortunately, that tactic hadn't worked well on Monday and now utterly failed him. He had to resort to Plan B, loath though he was to touch it. He had to tell the truth.

"Okay, so maybe Mac and I got into a _little _fight and he said some things, I said some things, and then he ran away, but it's not my fault!" he protested, eying the mirror and then falling to his knees as if to plead with it. The Terrence reflection gave him a cool, apprehending look like it wasn't buying his story either. And the reflection behind that…dropped her bag on the floor in surprise. Oops.

Shuffling around on his knees, he glanced up to find his mother, thunderstruck, staring right back at him. Her jaw agape, she peered at him like she'd never seen him before. For a moment, she merely stared dead ahead, unable to speak. Silence fell upon the apartment and he quickly rose to his feet. He had to say something, especially since the astonishment was being replaced by fury. Surely she wouldn't be _too _angry with him…

"Mom, it's not my fault! I mean, how can you predict what that kid's gonna do? He's like a teapot ready to explode-" he protested, but she grabbed him by his collar. Up close, he saw the red eyes, but not entirely from exhaustion and stress. No, this was because other than her husband leaving her, this was the angriest she'd quite possibly ever been in her life. Terrence gulped, averting his eyes. This was bad. No, that was an understatement. This was cataclysmic.

"Let me get this straight. Mac has been missing for almost a _week _now and not only do you know why he ran away, but you've been hiding it from me? And not only that, but _you're _the reason he ran away?" she growled, hoisting him with alarming ease over to the couch where she half flung, half laid him down. Terrence unconsciously wormed his way to the corner and grabbed a pillow as if to shield himself from her temper. Her brown eyes flashed dangerously as she threw herself into the easy chair and glared at him.

"_Start explaining_."

* * *

A half hour later, his mother, cup of tea in hand, sat calmly back down in the chair. A moment passed in which Terrence poked a hole in his corduroy shirt and she sipped. The clock behind them ticked steadily and the faucet dripped like Chinese water torture. Badly, he longed for something to break the silence, anything to let him know the extent of his punishment. He wondered if it was too late to plea with her.

Finally, when the tension escalated and he opened his mouth, she spoke. To his astonishment, no anger remained in her voice, merely shock and dismay. Her fingers wrapped around the warm mug and she inhaled the rich aroma of Earl Grey. Whenever she was truly upset, she always prepared a cup and had even made hot cocoa for him. However, he hadn't touched his, laying on the coffee table. His stomach clenched and twisted too much to permit him to try it.

"Why didn't you tell me you felt this way?" she inquired and sighed, looking older than her thirty some odd years. Indeed, she felt like it too. She ought to have guessed, but with her jobs and now, her anxiety over Mac, she'd overlooked the possibility. Now she wished she'd been more attentive to her children than her jobs or at least managed to balance them better.

"Huh? What way?" he replied, dumbstruck. "You're not mad at me anymore?"

Maybe, just maybe, his story had persuaded her that he wasn't the one at fault here. Unfortunately, he hadn't figured out who was, in fact, but if she thought it was someone else, then he was in the clear. Normally, he'd grin triumphantly and pump his fists in the air, but strangely, the victory seemed hollow. Even if he was indeed "off the hook", Mac was still missing. He hated to admit it, especially to himself, but he worried about the little guy. His stomach twisted again as he recalled the sound of him smacking into the truck's grille.

"Oh, believe me, Terrence, I'm furious with you. That's not going to change so easily," she said and then sighed again. Okay…the more she sipped her tea and remained calm, the worse his nerves handled it. If she was so furious, why wasn't she screaming? Why was she just sitting there and looking at him? Ranting and raving he understood well…but not this, the chilly reception. He'd never been subject to it before from her and it bewildered him.

"Then why aren't you screaming at me?" he said stupidly, blinking. "And punishing me?"

"The punishment will come _later_," she snapped icily, fingers tightening around the mug to the point where her knuckles whitened. Little steam tendrils rose into the air and then vanished. Meanwhile, on the table, his hot cocoa cooled.

Silent once more, he gazed at the coffee table instead of her. A mug clinked beside it and she knelt down to lift his head. Abashed, he glanced away, but she neither returned to her former position nor released his chin. His eyes darted towards the clock and he swallowed hard, guilty again. His mother was already ten minutes late for her second job and, by the look of things, wasn't coming in at all. His guilt doubled.

"Mom, your job…" he protested weakly. "You're going to miss work-"

Shaking her head, she placed her hands on either side of his face to force him to look at her. This he did, albeit reluctantly. Every second ticking away meant another wasted dollar thanks to him. Then again, he'd already caused sleepless nights and exhausted days, so the pursuit of fleeting money shouldn't have been too foreign. Grr, why had his conscience chosen now of all times to pipe up and annoy him? Things would have been a hell of a lot better if he'd simply been born without one.

"While I was waiting for the pot to boil, I called in sick. This is more important than secretarial work," she asserted, releasing his cheeks. The instant her hands left his face, he glanced at the clock; she had to steer him back again.

"Why didn't you tell me you felt this way?" she repeated, brown eyes rooting him to the spot. He swallowed hard, unable to look away. His stomach churned again.

"Wasn't it kind of obvious?" he said quietly. "I mean, you've seen me ripping on Mac…"

She sighed, rising to her feet and staring out the window. Condensation on the glass obscured the wonderful view of weeds and a parking lot nature slowly reclaimed. She wiped it stubbornly, then turned around to face him; her arms folded across her chest. Raven hair hung limply, the product of careless washing and fatigue. Half heartedly, she shook her head.

"_That _I knew about. I may be at work three quarters of the time, but I'm not blind or stupid. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about how much you resent him and your father," she said softly and he hung his head. All of a sudden, his feelings were not only important, but valued. It was a very new and rather uncomfortable concept. He'd rather go back to being ignored than discuss this.

Grabbing her mug, she seated herself beside him. He finally retrieved his own only to discover it had already gone cold. Ah, well. That was the way everything was here. As soon as he wanted something, it lost its appeal or was no longer available. His granite eyes swept the brown carpet.

"Your father and I got married at a young age. We thought we were in love and…for a period of time, I guess we were. He had just gotten out of college and I was struggling to pay for it myself. He offered me paradise compared to what I was used to and I thought that was what I wanted. Then again, I thought _he _was what I wanted.

"When I became pregnant with you, he warned me that his father had left him when he was a little younger than Mac is now. He said that he wanted to be better than that for the sake of us, but I could tell being a father made him jittery. He started staying out later, sometimes not coming back until odd hours of the night, and he was always very nervous around you, like you might spontaneously explode.

"As you got older, he was getting a little better, but he still wasn't comfortable with being a father. I sought counseling for the two of us, but there's little any one can do when one party refuses to admit they have a problem. But on his own, he seemed to be coping better and when you were five, I thought he could handle it. So I told him I was pregnant with Mac.

"He panicked. He wanted me to have an abortion and when I refused, we began to argue fiercely. I don't know if you remember this, but a few months before Mac was born, your father threw a pot…and it knocked you out cold. We spent the night in the emergency room thanks to that, but while we were sitting there, your father was second guessing himself. How could he raise another child when he couldn't even deal with what he had right now?

"But he was wrong. When Mac was born, he doted on him. I thought for sure everything would be all right. That was, until Mac was two- yes, the year before your father left. He started getting antsy again, like he had when you were a toddler, and complained he couldn't deal with the marriage or you two.

"Then he decided he couldn't handle it any more and told me he was leaving for a little while. That little while became a week, a month, and then a year. I received divorce papers in the mail and that was that. We were finished.

"Do you know whyI'm telling you all this? Not to make you blame Mac, but for you to realize it's not his fault or yours. Your father got frightened and thought I'd be a better parent alone for his two children than he would. Mac didn't make him leave and there's no reason to blame him for it. I'm sure deep down, you realized that.

"Now, I'm going to ask you again, do you know where your little brother is?"

Awestruck, processing everything she'd said, he couldn't even begin to explain that he couldn't because he didn't know, when the phone rang. It jarred him out of his reflective state and, taken aback herself, his mother let it rang a couple times before answering. Silence reigned in the apartment while she listened and he forced his brain to accept the past. Already, he struggled to alleviate all the resentment he'd placed squarely on Mac's shoulders.

"That…was your father," she said, placing the receiver down. "He's in Townsville."

Rising swiftly, she strode over to the coat rack and retrieved hers and then tossed Terrence his. He caught it deftly, off guard but at least good with hand-eye coordination.

"And you're coming with me to get him."

* * *


	12. Waking

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter Twelve: Waking

He slept, a dream like state induced by a sleeping pill Frankie slipped into his drink at lunch. Truthfully, she felt guilty, but Madame Foster promised her that things would work out. And so, hands clasped together, she kept vigil. The instant Bloo awoke, she was to notify Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman. A stray strand of red hair fell in her eyes and she idly tucked it behind her ear. Tonight was going to be a long night.

Swift hopping by the door turned her head and she stared at the soft smile on the imaginary rabbit's face. Glancing around to ensure no one else was around, she smiled back and then glanced back down at Bloo. Matronly, she tucked the sheets around his little body and listened to his breathing. Slow and regular…she hoped she wasn't going to fall asleep too…

* * *

_ Bloo perched on his shoulders as the two humans sat on his father's stoop and scrutinized each car. Red, blue, and green passed by, each as inconsequential as the last. Pink, blue, and green streaked across the sky, as inconsequential as the cars. Somewhere within Townsville's depths, a monster ravage the city and Mac personally found it as inconsequential as the cars' colors that weren't his mothers and the girls' streaks. What impact did they have on his life? None. Then again, what impact did his words have on his father? Probably none as well._

_He wanted to hate him, truly he did, but he lacked both the energy and the ruthlessness. Instead, he pitied him and the shell of a man he'd become. His father had done the same thing to him and he hadn't learned from his mistakes. He abandoned his children and what really hurt was that after he left him, he'd probably never see him again. Yes, he wasn't exactly a prime, shining example of humanity's perfection, but he was his father. And, in that selfish little boy way, he longed for his return._

_Bloo hadn't said a word since his eruption and for this, Mac was eternally grateful. His presence alone soothed, but he wasn't in the mood for a reprimand from his 'better' half. He had the feeling his words would be callous and enough to fling salt into searing wounds. He wished he hadn't come along and heard everything for it would be so much easier to bury the issue when Bloo was oblivious. He wished he hadn't been stupid enough to rise to Terrence's bait in the first place and run away. He wished he weren't a powerless child and his father a deadbeat who had moved to avoid his sons._

_"You're not coming back with me, are you?" he half accused, half snapped. Beneath his billowing bangs, chestnut eyes burned intensely and, were he a Powerpuff Girl, would have scoured the sidewalk. Bloo shivered, immensely disconcerted by the pain in his voice and his tone. He patted his shoulder and nearly toppled off._

_"You're just going to vanish for five more years and hope no one goes looking for you, aren't you?" he snapped acidly. "Like you did before. You don't care."_

_His father rose and stretched, pacing to avoid his son's heated gaze. He glanced once more at the road and then, contemplated. Stormy grey eyes shut; he placed a hand on his chin. Bloo blew him a raspberry he never heard. It seemed he indeed was taking him seriously. At least, Mac hoped so. _

_"This isn't as easy as you think it is, Mac…" he whispered, watching an old, tattered orange leaf sail past, over their heads and into a garbage can. It was like their relationship- torn and weathered nearly beyond recognition. Its color had faded from a verdant green into the color of leaf death. There was no future for it…and perhaps none for them as well._

_"But leaving us was?" he shot back, unable to stop himself. He jumped to his feet; fists balled, and glared daggers. Bloo added a "yeah!" and then pitched headfirst into Mac's arms when he fell off. Only pure reflex caught him, otherwise, he'd have had a nasty collision with the pavement. Mac wasn't focusing on Bloo at all- all his energy and spirit was directed at his father. The anger emanated strongly enough to nearly knock Bloo out of commission. _

_Defeated, he threw up his hands. "What do you want me to tell you? What do you want me to say? Coming back isn't that easy! I can't just go back to your mother and ask her to let me stay there. I can't simply move away and find a new job like that. The real world doesn't work like that."_

_"And the real world doesn't have any room for me to have a father, does it?" he whispered, tears brimming. Bloo flung himself out of his arms and shoved his father hard. Whether it was righteous anger for his creator or simply frustration from the situation, it was hard to tell. Balled fists pounded on his lower leg and Bloo shoved as hard as possible. Unfortunately, though the power of imagination was greatly amplified in Mac's world, he was unable to budge him. Things could only progress so far before hitting a wall._

_ A red VW bug pulled up to the house and its occupants talked before a gangly teenager reluctantly exited. He saw Mac, tried to re-enter, and a steel grip on his arm accompanied by what sounded like a screech of pain, convinced him otherwise. Nonetheless, he refused to glance anywhere but the asphalt as his mother steered him towards them. He whistled innocently and she dug her nails into his arm once more, eliciting another shriek._

_Mac's mother dragged Terrence towards the curb and then gestured at Mac. He surveyed Bloo, his mother, father, and brother and then dug in his heels. Anyone who watched him carefully would have drawn back in surprise. A blue glint shone in his eyes not unlike Bloo's. Not the mischievous one, mind you, but the one that said "I've had enough. I'm getting my way _**now**_."_

_"I'm not leaving until Dad agrees we're going to see him again," he snapped, the word "Dad" still unfamiliar on his tongue. Everyone's eyes widened and his mother, releasing Terrence, strode forward to seize him by the arms and hoist him into the car. Suddenly, an odd, invisible weight followed by a pair of arms slapped her away. Heard only by Mac, the weight growled. It bore its teeth as well and continued to push her away until she halted, bewildered. At first, she believed it to be Mac's doing, but when he stood stock still and yet, it persisted…_

_Bloo, too, was bewildered. Then he glanced at Mac and the reason became clear. When Mac needed him present enough to hug, he was. When Mac really needed him to back him up, he was. He was still invisible, but strong enough to fend them off. Proud, he posed, momentarily losing track of the events around him. _

_"What on earth?" she murmured, staring blankly. Silence descended upon them- none were quite sure what to say or how, indeed, to say it. Bloo and Mac's expressions mirrored each other, both hardened and determined. Bloo hopped by his side and pointed his finger accusingly at Mac's parents for starting this in the first place. Mac, however, ignored him. His gaze was fixated on his mother and defiance curled his lip._

_"You heard me, Mom. I'm not leaving unless Dad does." _

_The sentence hung in the air like a death warrant. The two adults exchanged an uneasy glance, unconsciously thinking the same thing- _how do we tell him no? How can we explain why we can't be together ever again? Why must children entertain false hopes and what are we to them if we break them, smash them against the pavement like so many broken bottles? We strive to protect them and sometimes, we hurt them more than they ever dreamed possible.

_"Who says we **want **him back?" Terrence snapped, striding in between the two. Grey eyes blazed and his fists, already balled, swung back and forth ominously. His whole frame shook with anger. Now was the time to vocalize his objections and boy, was he was going to get it. He'd waited all his life to tell him exactly what he thought of him and it was the perfect opportunity. Screw his kid brother who wasn't smart enough to figure out running away was a stupid idea. Screw his mother who ranted and raved at him. Screw it all…it was all **his **fault._

_"So he can leave us again? So he can treat us like shit-" he began and overrode his mother's "**Terrence!"**__at his curse. He glared at Mac and cracked his knuckles threateningly, but stepped another three paces towards his father. They stood close enough to brawl and in his fondest dreams, he'd do just that. Who was going to stop him? Mac? His mother? Ha. He'd like to see them try. _

_Pivoting on his heel, he glared at Mac and the invisible figment situated beside him. That brown hair, those eyes and the chin shape were exactly like his father's. He was constantly reminded of his father every time he looked at him. His blood boiled and he gritted his teeth. It was bad enough they had to take **him **home, much less the possibility of his loser father. _

_"And youreally think he should come back? Why? What, did your little plea for his attention suddenly remind him of us? You ran away and showed up at his door and suddenly, he gives a damn? I wanted him back for five **years **and you, you with your stupid optimism, make him change his mind? _

_"You don't deserve it. You never did. You don't remember having a father in the first place- **I **do. You don't know what you're missing. How can you miss what you never had?"_

_He broke off there, thoughts a jumbled mass of ambivalence. Like any child, he wanted his father back and his family to be complete. On the other, he resented his leaving and the possibility of any return being temporary at best. It wasn't fair that Mac could win him over when Terrence had wanted it so badly when he was younger. It wasn't fair that Mac got all the breaks. Then again, he was the **hero **and what was he but the bumbling villain? _

_Mac shuffled uneasily, glancing at Bloo and then at the sidewalk. For once in his life, Bloo was at a loss. He glanced at his creator, at Terrence, and then at the two adults, who separated from the group and conversed quietly. He placed an arm on his shoulder, but Mac shrugged it off again. He wasn't certain he wanted comfort._

_The moments passed like hours and the loudest noise was their whispers, trailing on the wind like autumn leaves. Occasionally, one would look up, observe them, and then return to the conversation. Waiting was interminable and unbearable, but the situation was too awkward to break the silence and demand an answer. One thing was for certain- the car ride home would be most unpleasant. _

_Finally, when they thought they would scream in frustration, Mac's mother broke away and offered the two a smile they didn't return. Her grey eyes swept Terrence's, but she reserved judgment at the moment. Later, she would contend with what he'd said. Right now, it was time for the verdict. _

_"We've come to a decision. Your father's going to try to visit you on every other weekend and if he can manage that-" Her eyes narrowed disbelievingly and she dug her nails into her palm._

_"-then we'll see about alternate living arrangements."_

_Though there was no gavel, it resounded in their heads and hearts. Not quite the victory either anticipated, but it would do for a start. Perhaps things would get better in time…_

* * *

(dodges rotten tomatoes) I tried to write more, but I didn't like it. So the ending's really up to you, isn't it? Does Mac's father live up to his promise, knowing what we do about him and observing his interaction with Mac? (And of course, Bloo wakes up- that's a given). Will Terrence work out his issues? You figure it out, because this is where we part, faithful readers.

But, hey, if you like my writing so much…(points to Nightmare) Subtle advertising right there.

Oh, and I was going to shut up, but I have one more thing to say about the flame wars that are going (or, hopefully, have ended) between me, Liam288, and a few other authors here. I said something because it was Grand High Idol and Dude13 being flamed and they're friends of mine. Besides, it's not right to tear someone down to push yourself above them. Think what you will about me, I was showing loyalty. And though that loyalty meant I got blasted too, I don't really care. You blast my friends, you blast me too.

And on that note, I leave you. 'Til we meet again…


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